Loneliness is a strange place to be... We are not always alone... We are not always isolated... Yet we are lonely...
Where is loneliness? For me it is in every thought that goes unexpressed, lost without words spoken, or spread across a page somewhere... Or in a sigh that comes from a place inside that yearns for something or someone to touch that place... Sometimes it is in that hollowness that comes even in a crowd...
Loneliness is a strange place to be...
Winter always seems lonely. The blankets stave off the cold, and the gas furnace blasting into life brings a certain reassurance with it, but it is still cold. And the quiet of winter is the most silent of all. Watching the snow gather, seeing icicles form, and the streets so devoid of life, winter seems lonely. It's not like spring or autumn, the seasons of lovers; or summer, the season of heat and high passion... It's just cold... The television keeps the room alive, but the electronically controlled volume lends an artificiality to the ambiance of the room, and the other rooms fall into silence, as the refuge away from winter's chill recedes to a single room.
Outside the world looks bright enough, but it is padded with whiteness. Snow remains even where the sun drifts across its surface, and the shadows look like holes in the season. Sometimes just walking, the wind pistol-whips the senses, but the hands in my pockets are my own. No other fingers entwine mine to keep them in company. The warmth in there comes from within, and the windbreaker struggles to keep it so. Perhaps another hand might help to fill the space? To chase the glum chill away?
Home seems like a refuge out here in the world, but it isn't... It is just a hiding place... A place where the world cannot come in... Where winter lives outdoors... But then... oh then... I feel the cold - and I realize - winter lives within... This is my season...
Where is loneliness? For me it is in every thought that goes unexpressed, lost without words spoken, or spread across a page somewhere... Or in a sigh that comes from a place inside that yearns for something or someone to touch that place... Sometimes it is in that hollowness that comes even in a crowd...
Loneliness is a strange place to be...
Winter always seems lonely. The blankets stave off the cold, and the gas furnace blasting into life brings a certain reassurance with it, but it is still cold. And the quiet of winter is the most silent of all. Watching the snow gather, seeing icicles form, and the streets so devoid of life, winter seems lonely. It's not like spring or autumn, the seasons of lovers; or summer, the season of heat and high passion... It's just cold... The television keeps the room alive, but the electronically controlled volume lends an artificiality to the ambiance of the room, and the other rooms fall into silence, as the refuge away from winter's chill recedes to a single room.
Outside the world looks bright enough, but it is padded with whiteness. Snow remains even where the sun drifts across its surface, and the shadows look like holes in the season. Sometimes just walking, the wind pistol-whips the senses, but the hands in my pockets are my own. No other fingers entwine mine to keep them in company. The warmth in there comes from within, and the windbreaker struggles to keep it so. Perhaps another hand might help to fill the space? To chase the glum chill away?
Home seems like a refuge out here in the world, but it isn't... It is just a hiding place... A place where the world cannot come in... Where winter lives outdoors... But then... oh then... I feel the cold - and I realize - winter lives within... This is my season...
