Wednesday, February 2, 2011

To Find the Words

He was never a fan of the word ‘lonely’. To him, one that is lonely is one that is always lonely…in any scenario. He denies the eclipse that they’ve called ‘loneliness’ – loneliness, to him, is an impairing darkness, a distracting and fruitless figment in the imagination of others. He cannot possibly be lonely. He has the friends who stave off such ideas; a family unit who have helped him take walks through life; all people who take pleasure in a company that is his own, and possess the desire needed to embrace it - he knows this. He also knows these other creatures, another breed of human that have found what he so desires in another, just a different people who have illustrated a goal that he could never accurately author; he looks on them with great enthusiasm. Yes, he may hunger for what they have, but that hunger is never met with envy or jealousy. Solitude was never a problem, either. If anything, he enjoys it. His solitude is most often spent with a friend named ‘Johnnie’, a pitiful playlist of love and a page freshly filled with words sipped from a glass of Scotch Whisky – an aged beverage whose infancy was at a time when this believer was just learning of the existence of love, a phenomenon only yet witnessed through silver screens and not with his own eyes. Intoxicated by the thought of love with another, but yet to be experienced, that boat hadn’t even sailed at the time, much less endured the rough seas as it has now. A sip so sweet, that it has seen a better time; perhaps. A sip so profound, that it’s just as old as the yearning in his heart; no doubt.

Well aware that a sail-boat with no water inside of it is one not yet pushed to its pinnacle, his boat has sailed, and, sure, it has its fair-share of puddles and slippery spots, but it’s not enough for him – he yearns. He huffs and puffs at the brick wall of many faces - the faces of every battle lost, and every battle he failed to fight. How could he have thrown something like her away, he questions; how could such a specimen be in his presence without him sparing the thought, he wonders. Every female of his past, every figure left touched or untouched, they are all a market of questions, all marvels that walk the foundations of his past. Does he gawk at such faces? No; he scribbles with muse, constructing sentences that come from a place deep down but are only intended for the eyes of tonight’s obsession. The eyes that sparkle, the smiles that thicken the blood – sublime. He doesn’t love these girls, but the thought of such depth, a depth far greater than the one delivered by an image on a computer screen - exhilarating. They are just LCD smiles, all a watermark of two words, one that begins with ‘y’ and one that ends with it. To yearn, in his case, is to be lonely. He often doesn’t like to admit it, but even though he doesn’t always feel it, he yearns for someone and that’s what makes him lonely - if only finding that person was as easy as it is for him to find the words.

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