a poem

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I am practicing the art of loneliness.
I remember people who I hardly know,
but have seen,
or spoken to,
and I imagine that they are better,
more lively,
more beautiful,
than anyone could be.


I envy people in pairs or groups,
and look down upon their frivolity;
I take refuge in the profundity,
of my stern alone-ness.


I am so serious about it all,
that I must be doing something important,
even if all I'm doing is hiding my loneliness.


I feel odd if I go outside,
but alone,
at home,
with my thoughts,
I go mad.

Re-tracing what I should have done,
but didn't do,
remembering moments of pain and anxiety,
false steps on the road to social isolation.

I remember all of it,
and can change none of it,
and travel in a pointless, painful circle,
Until, finally, I will run through the door,
burst onto the street,
and meet no one,
except a cold wind,
snow half-melted and half frozen,
and the whoosh of passing cars.

And, then,
I will stoutly,
bravely,
falsely,
pretend that I know where I am going,
why I am here,
and if I should meet someone,
anyone,
who knew me,
I would want to hug them,
and pull them close,
not let them leave,
because,
finally I can't stand it any more:
This being alone.


And so I am an easy target,
and almost a willing victim.


I am a very bad practitioner of the art of being alone.




Copyleft 2012 Mark J. Lovas
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