The consummation of aloneness

Sadness runs along my skin like water. Alone, I lay, hair spilling out over the ground. Thoughts, slow to me, chase my feelings. Reasonable or unreasonable, I choose to not question this depth, the darkest swirling blue beyond the reach of sun’s tendrils. Shadows enter the stillness of my mind in a way that is warm and welcoming. I’m not fond of the founts of unrest springing below my breastbone, but with the sadness comes a deep calm sometimes, drawing me into inky sentiments and shady warmth. 

Sadness doesn’t always run cold. Yet my arms are electric, longing for the mere stabilizing touch of a caring entity. The warmth of my soul is no less longing than the cold of it. In wanting of the calm, my mind departs from the physical and leaves the electric to decay my body, transcending the physical to escape into the pained calm of aloneness. 

Aloneness. A biting feeling. Yet calm as the sensation of watching the surface from the depths of the pool, as oxygen flows out of you like a life force. Bitter. Yet I love it. Some days it runs along my spine like a playful wind urging me into a wanderlust. Today it merely assets itself in the touch of ink and the calming sensation of oxygen leaving the body.

I don’t want to be alone. But aloneness greets me with the kindness of an old friend. And to its credit I greet it as warmly. Because the feeling of consummation in the subtle hand of loneliness is more winsome than the emptiness of human contact every time.


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