kagablog

If loneliness is a physical affliction, I’m suffering from it. The oppressive weight on my chest seeks escape from my body through my tear ducts, only for the oppressiveness to redouble itself with my body’s inability to cry.
I suffer from it daily, its presence a constant companion. The heavy depressions, the fear of the day manifests itself in an inability to wake up; the fear of rejection and more loneliness manifests itself in an inability to speak, an unwillingness to respond to even the smallest gesture of friendship.
It is a terminal affliction, my soul sensing that it will one day take me, hence my inability to plan a future for myself, a present other than the one bound by hours serving consumers of the Big Mac book. While there is always an awareness of the loneliness, there is the concurrent denial of it. One day I will be happy, one day I will be whole, one day my life will make sense and what I do will have worth, who I am will be worthy…. Of what? Of love? Impossible, I say. You are doomed to loneliness. You are doomed to the physical and psychical manifestations of the disease of loneliness, the dis-ease of it.
If loneliness is a physical affliction, I suffer from it. The pain wells up in my chest, with nowhere to go. The ink pouring onto the page a poor, cold substitute for the warmth of tears, the humanness of tears. I cannot respond in a human way. It would be too painful. The humanity of admitting my pain, of searching for a salve would be fatal. Better to wander hermit-like through humanity, hermetically sealing my own humanity, scientifically observing and commenting on humanity through my inky tears than expose the raw nerve. Better to cover the sensitive skin with the thickness of a scar which denies the skin’s sensitivity. Appear to the outside world as a freak who enjoys pain, an abomination who is insensitive to pain. Yes, I can slice through this, yes, I can pierce through that. Imagine what I can endure. I am impervious. While all the while I unsuccessfully seal off a writhing rawness which limpingly floats through the day, leaking ink.
It’s leaking ink, take it in for a service. Transfuse the ink of others into its body to make up for its daily wastage. Seal it off from the humanness of contact, conversation, friendship, love, sex. Steadily supply only that which is necessary for the minimum signs of life. We only need to keep it alive so that it can transcribe our experiences with its inky leakages. It can exist with the minimum of food, money, exposure to sunlight, enjoyment. It does not need any of those things. It cannot cry. Why supply humanity to that which is inhuman? It cannot cry, the pain wells up and loneliness becomes a physical affliction.