Bookmark #596

You know winter is here when you start to see loneliness creep up on you as you sit on the couch watching TV or on a corner of the street as you walk and hear someone call out your name. Of course, no one has called out your name, and it is an illusion, as all things are; you only hear it because you wish it. However, writing about it puts you in a position that can only be best described as a misunderstanding that knows no solution.

All the people around you, since there are so many, ask you, “how is it that you’re feeling this when we are here?” Logical as you are, pragmatic as you pretend to be, you try to think of an answer, but you draw blanks, and no words seem right. Lost in this unprompted battle of wits, you tell them they’re right, but they’re not even close. It is entirely possible to feel belonging and loneliness at the same time. It is only slightly difficult to explain to those who have never felt it, like how the importance of knowing a dog growing up can only be shared by those who already know it. There is no way you can put it into words for those who have not felt it. Everyone else can feign understanding and pretend empathy, but they rarely understand it unless they’ve felt it themselves; if they have, you will not need words.

This state of mind is, by no means, debilitating and has no cause for urgency. Seasons come and go, and with them, so does what you feel in them. If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that when I tell someone so much time has passed and I do not know how I got here, I rarely mean it as morbidly as they assume it to be. For what it’s worth, I am glad that the time has passed, that life has gone on, and that seasons have changed, and I’ve felt so much. In the same way, this outpour of seasonal loneliness has nothing to do with how I feel about it.

Before a shower, we often take the temperature of the water with our bare hands to ensure we can bear it, and only then do we jump in. It is but just that. In fact, if it makes any difference, I am far too aware I can write much better when there is a smidge of turmoil in my heart. It is a beautiful gift, and like I am for all things, for this, too, I am grateful.

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here