Some days I wake up and the world is speaking an alien language. Those are the days that I am myself. I walk around, outside a crowd, inside just me. And a terrible, terrible silence.
I could hear a soul sigh, and feel it brush against my body, sending a chill up my spine.
To be so alone. With just me and my thoughts. I would run out and shout and cry.
Talk to me, damn you, talk to me. And the people would stop and stare. It’s amazing how they always stop and stare. But they never say anything.
But I don’t shout.
I stare at a phone which does not ring.
I make small talk with ghost people in one forty characters.
I sit in my room, I drink and I write.
But I do not shout.
That would be cowardly, and I’m nothing if not a fighter.
I might make an overture, to a once-upon-a-time friend.
I might reply to goodnight messages.
I might fill my room with smoke and put a song on infinite loop.
But, I will never, ever shout.
Then after years of just me, there might be someone who would want to listen to me. My deepest darkest fears and my abandoned self, but such is divine justice that he will listen, but he would not understand.
I might shout myself hoarse again, for him. But he is not me.
And after a time, I know I will shut up again.
Such an irony it is. This terrible struggle to be heard and understood.
Because in the end all you really want to say is–
For God’s sake, leave me alone.