Moving to a new place is hard. I always thought that I wanted to jet off somewhere and meet new people, see new places, explore new cultures...that feeling hasn't changed really, but I didn't expect the loneliness that comes with such a dream. A part of me feels like a social pariah - the one at the party that everyone chooses to ignore if even invited at all, though usually not. What is wrong with me? I'm not the one you would expect to be so weary and lonely.
It's hard looking around at people as they laugh and tell stories of their lives; I smile, drink my coffee, and makes jokes in return. Even if I get a laugh, it's just never enough. There's something about me that will draw people in only so far before they turn around and walk away even faster. I've always been this way, and it's always been something that confused me. I'm not too devastating to look at, I smile (in public) more than anything, and I'm always friendly. So what is it that I'm missing? Why are other people who are more cruel, more angry, or even somewhat dull making bonds with people in ways that I never could?
The loneliness in my life has made me wearier, and I've found myself losing myself in my dreams. I imagine a brighter future, picturing myself in a city where I am surrounded by strangers, waving at familiar faces, and basking in the brightness of the day. But I have 4 more years of darkness before a dawn that I don't even know will be there. And it's hard to swallow the feeling that things could never, in fact, change.
I miss having someone I could call. I miss getting excited for the weekend when I would actually venture outside my home. I miss laughing, comforting, ranting, running, and even just sitting in contented silence with someone else who was happy to be with me. Now I dread the days that are filled with nothing, when all that accompanies me are the darkest thoughts of my mind. I hate the feeling that my throat is full of air that can never reach my lungs. I hate feeling like I'm about to cry before turning outside to watch the birds and pretend like that's me flying through the sky.
But above all else, I'm terrified because I know that I will continue on, pushing through each day like it's just another one and accepting desperation as routine as the setting of the sun. And I watch as the time ticks by and the days pass, idly wishing that each one would be my last. Though I have a hope, though fruitless as it seems, that has roots buried deep...and yet, every day, I ask the question: am I strong or am I weak?
