There aren’t a lot of people left in the library. It’s cold outside, but even the few outside aren’t coming into the warmth among the stacks of books. The smog has finally given way to real fog, and the world outside looks mystical, and unreal. Among all of this I sit on a solid, wooden, chair, with a view of almost all of the room.
I miss someone. I don’t know who, yet. I ought to know don’t you think? If I’m going to miss someone, I should have a face, and a name to match. What reason do I have for missing this faceless person, because it makes all the sense in the world to have a reason, right? The thing is, I have tears in my eyes, and I can’t quite figure out why. It is frustrating in every sense of the word. Emotion is trying to rise up inside of me, and fight its way out of my body. I know how that will end up; me on the floor, curled up, trying to literally hold myself together. I’d be unable to scream, and not a lot of noise would escape me, in fear of being heard. It’s too close to losing my sanity, so I’ll ridicule it all, dust myself up, and go back to doing whatever it is I’m doing.
Truth is, there’s someone sitting next to me. She’s a friend, yet I am unsure of what to say to her. I know I could say just about anything, and she would listen, but I don’t think I can take the carefully controlled look on her face as she tries to absorb and make heads and tails of it. I can talk to a lot of people, but…
I want to talk to someone. No, not the people I’ve mentioned. I don’t know who I want to talk to, only that I almost ache for a long meaningful conversation with someone. There are nine people left in the room. Seems like a lot, until you see all those empty chairs, and think of the emptiness inside of yourself.
When did you realize that it would almost always be like this?
Nobody is ever there forever, nothing lasts and is forever. What a relief it must be for all those that can pick up their phones and spend hours simply conversing. A good conversation, and not a debate or an argument – God, I’m sick of those – to get matters off your chest.
There was a resounding silence just now. The music turned off without me realizing it. That’s another sort of loneliness, isn’t it? I listened to nine hours of continuous music last night. It made my ears hurt, but I didn’t stop until I had to sleep. Even I know it’s better to have my ears hurt than my hurt.
Funny thing, the heart; a beautiful, powerful, muscle…that does not feel.
Regardless of the extent to which we romanticize it, the heart doesn’t feel anything at all. It’s all in our head, and the gut, I suppose.
I know this, but there remains a pressure in my chest, a screw that keeps tightening until it physically hurts to breathe, to do anything, to be.
The librarian is looking at me in a peculiar way.
My fist was clutching the fabric of my sweater, and he must’ve thought I might have been suffering from a medical condition. An ailment of the heart, for the romantics out there; besides the librarian, I am the only one left.