The Venom Of Isolation

I’m scared of losing people. The fear was always there, I guess.

It’s actually quite ironic when in fact, I like to be alone.

I find beauty in the solace of 2am’s and afternoon walks by myself. I find joy in always having space, may it be in between my fingers or in my queen sized bed. I find comfort in having my thoughts all to myself from early morning until late at night.

Alone translates into freedom instead of loneliness– most of the time.

Some nights, the loneliness just sinks in. Some days, I just can’t deny the sadness of it all. The darkness of being alone hits even in the brightest summer days, and it hits you the hardest when you have nothing but a million minutes in your hands. The sands of time bury you alive, and the ticking of the clock will reverberate through your entire being, haunting you even in your sleep. Yes, those are the days when you’re sprawled across your bed, unmoved for hours. Those are the days when you’re aimlessly walking, heading towards the unknown. Those are the days of sitting in your patio, waiting for something or someone to come along, knowing fully well that no one ever does.

Those days are undeniably agonizing because those days are the days you realize that you don’t like being alone.

But, being alone just grows on you. It is like poison in your veins, spreading through every inch without you even noticing. Soon, you’d be used to it, and you’d fool yourself into thinking that the beauty of always being alone outweighs the pain of it.

In my case, the venom of isolation roots from my fear of losing others. Most of the time, I push people away because I’m scared of losing them in the end. No one really stays after all, right? I often build my walls high enough to hide my darkest corners but low enough to show my light. I build these walls because my dark corners are filled with my demons– demons that don’t play well with others.

In a way, I chose to be alone.

I allowed the venom to take over, and eventually…

It poisoned me.


Drops of ink

I haven’t written in so long that it already feels foreign to me.

No, wait. Let me correct that.

I haven’t written about you in so long that it already feels foreign to me. That… or maybe the thought of you is already foreign to me.

I always tell myself to try to forget, and to try to move on.

Keyword? Try.

I said these words a million times before. I’d repeat the sentence over and over again until it all jumbles up in a blur– until I move on from the thought of moving on. Yes, I said the same words a million times before, quite carelessly if I may add. I’d throw them in every paragraph my actions speak until I believe the words to be true and real. I said the same words a million times before, trying to convince people that I truly was moving on. But in truth, I knew I wasn’t, not even close.

For so long, I have said the words without noticing the detail I meticulously emphasized myself. I became careless with the same thing I was so careful about. And for the first time, I actually paused and allowed myself to take in every word of the sentence I always tell myself.

Try to forget and try to move on

keyword? TRY.

It was a word I always pointed out, yet at the same time, it was also the word I unintentionally disregarded in the million times I said the same sentence. Because of this, my words were always empty.

So i said the words again for the million and first time with every word in mind. And for the first time out of a million times, The same words were different altogether. The same syllables rolled out of my tongue with a new stroke. The words I said over and over again finally came out in a different light. My words were no longer empty because for the first time, I allowed myself to immerse in the gravity of the word that could either make or break the statement, and for the first time, I actually tried.

And so, I decided to take a break from writing about you. I told myself I needed to stop concretizing the feelings coursing through every beat of my being whenever I think about you– just about you. I never really planned a hiatus. I didn’t want to stop writing. I just wanted to stop writing about you.

I never meant for the pages to be completely blank after your chapter. But, I was left with a lot of spaces to fill, and not even a single drop of ink tainted the clear sheets screaming for words to be tattooed on them. I tried to make the letters sit on paper, but they refused to be fine print– permanent and final. I couldn’t form a single sentence, not even a single word about the infinite things around me– excluding you of course. But isn’t that the reason why I couldn’t jot down a single letter? As a writer, I was paralyzed because I was limited to an infinity that excluded you. I could not write about anything because “anything” excluded you.

 I have come to realize that the thought of you is still not foreign, not even a little. The thought of you is not foreign at all. After so long, writing about you still feels the same. It still feels natural and easy, as if I never even stopped at all. The drops of ink crawl out effortlessly, and I don’t even have to try.

You are the only words I can write, and the thought scares me so much.