Holes in happiness

Loneliness and solitude are two separate states of being, as I once discovered.  I’m not sure if I was lonely back then, certainly not by my current classification of it; but solitude was something I understood quite well. My solitude was at the desk in my bedroom of my parents’ house. I was a night-owl, staying up long after they had gone to bed. Hunched over my computer with my headphones on, drifting off into another world. Those first few hours into the next morning were perfect in that there were no peripheral noises. There were no busses groaning past, no trains rattling by, no nagging parents, nothing. The night was unspoiled.

The closer I came to entering my twenties, the more I longed for the privilege of living in my own house, alone. My very own fortress of solitude. A place where I could get a little closer to that familiar seclusion I had late into the night.

My first year alone went by quickly. Now, in my second year, I feel that time is beginning to slow as I begin to realise just how empty my home really is. It’s too much for one person, my unit. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and I only use one of each. The others remain untouched.

A while ago I turned down an offer to move-in with a friend. It would have been mutually beneficial, but I was too proud of my own space. A space which I only ever half-used, and now wish to share.

It’s difficult to find comfort from my own solitude. Only now have I come to realise that an excess of solitude is loneliness. Perhaps it’s this very thought that scares me, and why it’s been on my mind lately.

It’s strange that the very thing I once thought would free me, has now become a sort of prison. I guess people need people after all.


All good things

I guess I’m just a bit lonely, really. A loner that won’t muster the courage to go meet new people.

I burnt my first bridge recently, you see; one of my best friends since 5th grade. Sometimes people drift apart until there’s no real connection left between them; but sometimes the way they just fade away shits you off to no end.

It kept me up at night. So I thought, fuck it, and deleted him from my socials. It’s not like he knew, or probably even cared what was going on with me anyway. That’s what I’m telling myself at least. I think it’s pretty accurate, considering the zero fucks he gave about making any sort of effort.

In the grand scheme of things, I’ve probably only made it weird with our friends though. I hear he’s hesitant to attend any event I may be at. He was rarely ever there anyway, so fuck him. I’d be polite and respectful though, if he were to show. Maybe we could clear the air.

I’m not sure I could speak like this to his face though. Perhaps I’d get the point across, but I doubt I’d be as passionate. No, instead I take it all out here, somewhat anonymously to you strangers who’ve stumbled across this angsty rant of some failed bromance. Well thanks for reading, I guess. It’s comforting to know someone will know how I’m doing, even if you’re not here with me.