It’s 9 PM and you have nothing to do. You want to go outside, but you can’t. You want to be with other people, but you aren’t. You make up excuses for your loneliness. “I’m just different. Complicated. Complex. No one understands me.” But you know you’re just like everyone else, except with more excuses and less friends. And you start to hate your circumstance. And you blame it on your career or your art. Anything to keep you from feeling like it’s your fault. Anything to keep you satisfied enough to not want to change. Or feel like you can’t change. But you know you can. And you ask yourself, “why do I do this?” But it’s rhetorical. And the answers don’t flow so easily. And you wonder why people change. And why you continue to stay, but you know you’re only lying again. The only static you can cling to is the faint idea of loneliness, in the distance, like a half-lit yellow moon that you follow when you have no destination, but a nagging desire to leave your house. You barely see it, peaking above the silhouettes of trees and rooftops. Stucco walls to keep law-abiding citizens from seeing your inability to cut grass on the weekends. And everything seems so false except that moon, that loneliness. Because you’re different. Complicated. Complex. And no one understands you. |