Lonesome

I’ve never been a people person. I find people to be tiring, they all have different needs and wishes and thoughts and feelings. I can hardly bear my own self, let alone other people. Of course I had to get used to hiding my hatred in time, to be a functioning member of the society, but I’d still choose to be alone over hanging out with people anyday. 

It’s not all that bad, being alone. I get to let my thoughts run free when there’s no one to judge me. I get to dance along to the songs I sing out loud, as loud as I want, when there’s no one around to be disturbed. I get to be my true self and cut my hair as short as i want. I get to paint canvases and papers and walls and jars and my hands. I get to stare into the mirror for long enough to realize how beautiful my eyes are. When I’m alone, when there are no eyes watching me and no minds hating me, I’m more free than I’ve ever been. 

“A garden with an only tree” is still a garden. The single tree amongst the everlasting fields of nothingness is still accompanied by its branches and leaves and little pieces of barks that finally let go. The one tree surrounded by a completing emptiness still has a tiny murder of crows over for a night of stargazing every once a while. And even when all the leaves fall and the crows fly away for the winter, the tree has itself. Somehow, it finds peace in the howling sound of the wind. 

 

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