Loneliness

Loneliness is like a quilt, you know. Sometime or the other, for one reason or another, the world turns cold, and seeking to escape from the frigidity you shelter under the reassuring warmth of the quilt. You tell yourself that this is solitude, not loneliness, and that the most telling difference between the two, indeed the only difference that matters, is that while the former is inarguably self-imposed the latter is decidedly a forced exile. You convince yourself that it is good to spend time with oneself, away from the madding crowd as it were, and that you’ll emerge from this brief interlude a stronger & more accepting person. That’s where you’re mistaken. This soothing benefactor who you think has given you warmth, this solitude is none other than loneliness in disguise, the diabolic wolf sharpening its claws while you marvel at the softness of the merino in its innocuous clothing. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he didn’t exist. Before you begin to notice the coarse fur sticking out from under the craftily stitched wool, loneliness is upon you, red in tooth & claw! He doesn’t go for the jugular though. Not right away. Why spill so much of precious blood with such haste? Waste not, want not. Instead, he clamps down on your windpipe, forcefully enough so that you cannot escape yet not so hard that you cannot breathe at all, that delicate overhang between wine and poison. And it is then – while your chest heaves with all the effort required to breathe, while your brain slowly begins to lose its supply of fresh air, while your panicked mind begins to go all fuzzy – that you begin to fall in love with that feeling of lightheadedness, that sense of non-being, almost as if you were floating on air. The world outside grows colder every moment, and you slide further inside the depths of the quilt. Further & further. First only the legs, then the waist, then the chest, then… for an infinitesimal moment, as he loosens his grip – teasing you quite deliciously – you wonder if the wool in the quilt is the same one that you had marveled at earlier, if you should make one last bid for escape. Only for a moment though. Insignificant. You don’t really want to escape, do you? No, you don’t. The quilt weighs heavy on you, as if stuffed with lead. Besides, you’ve already begun to fall in love with your loneliness, or so your mind whispers, and wouldn’t you rather stay in love forever than dare to imagine an otherwise existence? Remember how 1984 ended? “He loved Big Brother”.