There’s a strange sort of aloneness that comes down upon me like some sort of swooping bird that swallows me in its great wings and leaves me blinking in the darkness and utter silence of being alone.  The bright sunshine is somehow less real today and in its surrealism holds me captive.  With this feeling of being alone comes apathy; a lethargic irritation that cannot be shaken, and I am forced to stay within myself.  I can almost feel my soul hurling itself at the walls of my skin, scratching to get out.  It is this kind of aloneness that gives me pain, the pain of being trapped within myself; the pain of boredom, of cabin fever within my very being.  The strangest thing about this aloneness is that I do not feel lonely.  With loneliness comes longing, and I find myself not longing for anything except that my soul would finally break free of its fleshy cage and soar about like the swooping bird that first brought this irritation to myself.  This nameless aloneness; this anonymous captivity, makes me restless and I can’t help but think that if I had the freedom of even that great swooping bird I would be a captive still.  Because I am bound to myself.  Because I am a prisoner of nothing I can say.

©10 April 2011


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