You mistake being alone for loneliness, something that you cannot seem to decipher. There is, however, a very thin line, an invisible borderline that separates the two phenomenon – “aren’t you lonely for being alone?” they ask, and I apologetically shake my head because they do not – and never will – understand why was I be alone to begin with.
“They will never understand,” I whisper, voice raspy and throat dry from trying to push them away, away, far from here, from my life and, “leave me alone.” – yet they fake a voice of sympathy, hand on my shoulder, gripping it with a fake consideration (like plastic, oh and plastic burns easily, doesn’t it?) as if I am the last, remaining piece of what’s left on Earth.
Leave me alone.
“You are lonely. You cannot survive alone. No one can.”
The back of my mind screams (so so hard I can feel my skull cracks – hello there, nutcracker!) but I cannot, I do not utter anything to shove them away.
Instead, the only answer that I always, always seem to come up with is repeated like a beautiful melody playing in my playlist;
“I’m fine. I’m alone and I’m fine.”
Because they do not and never will be able to differentiate the fact that I am alone but not lonely.
“So, please.. Leave me alone.”
The edge of his cigarette glows excitedly, whispering silent challenges that taunt him to inhale deeper, deeper, more and more. He sighs at the sight of ashes across the floor, the ashes of guilt from the promise he just broke.
John Doe was a man of harmony, a man who devoured his every inner bone of life towards art; of balancing, oil painted strokes smeared on clean, unscratched canvas of white, painting rainbows and chime of glory.
There was a sense of longing eating up his heart, swallowing his mind like a lump of heartless, heartless beast as he eyed the impatient fire engulfing every edge of them; the canvas, the masterpiece, his masterpiece.
They fawned, they cheered, they gasped and they cried over his work. They clapped, they bowed and they praised every art of his when they were first pinned against the gallery’s pale, pale wall.
But that was long time ago when everything was at its rightful place.
Oh, where are your brushes now?
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Doe, what happened?
“A lot of things.”
John, why did you stop doing what you’re supposed to do?
“I stop because I have to. Stop saying it as if I have another choice.”
He is broken.
The John Doe that everyone knew was dead, long time dead.
Because all you will ever see is a man in his fifties who had given up on everything; on life, on art, but most importantly on himself.
All there is once you burned something would be ashes and dust.
And those are that ever matter.
He stands up, blows the edge of the sinful tobacco leaves, sprouting dust of ashes like a dandelion flower of spring, before finally shutting down its brightness and flare against the ashtray.
Behind him, the fire continues to eat up the leftovers of his paintings.
A shorter version was posted on my personal blog.
There are a few things that sometimes, we may find it difficult to utter in words, so one alternative way to deliver it would be through writing; scribbles, poetry, stories, you name it. This is a place for (a) traveling writer(s), those who wish to write but are reluctant due to some invisible barriers keeping you away from your muse. I may not be the brightest crayon in the box neither am I one of those talented writers out there but I love to write, I love words, I breathe words because they are my muse. While I may not be a gifted or talented young writer myself, I know people who are – people who have inspired me in one way or the other.
A special gratitude to be dedicated to my lovely online big sister, Zyn for being an amazing person as well as writer that – without she herself realizing – have motivated me to write more, or if not, strive for the better.
⌈In contrast from the exceptionally formal greeting stated above ⌋
❝A secondary, public blog that will, hopefully, satisfy our (my) muse. Short stories, poetry, vignettes or even book and movie reviews will be included here although it will not be limited to just those. You will not be seeing consecutive update on entries written in this chamber, however, I will write whenever my brain is being cooperative. And here I am, saying my hello towards you who read this with focused eyes and attentive ears. Welcome to the house of words. ❞ – Shiki
This is a “shared house” and I’m sharing this chamber with a few other great, talented people. Thank you for your visit and enjoy your stay.