The Art of Loneliness

The art of loneliness is one minute, utterly infinitesimal drop of invisible ink on a large, white canvas.  It is as though eyes look at him and see straight through him — the transparency of his soul a curse.  He looks into their eyes and wishes to be seen — to be desired in the embodiment of someone else's soul.  But each time his hope is squandered into a meaningless effort.  But he keeps trying, only to meet the same end.  He wonders why he must go on with this hopeless romanticism.  He thinks to himself, perhaps it is because he is so used to disappointment that he must continue the pattern in order to feel something.

He used to believe that he is reasonably attractive, but he now sees no reason to believe so.  He thinks back to previous conversations where he has been described as intelligent, ambitious, and with great faith — more than enough reasons to be desired by someone.  But if that is so, he wonders, why is his companion loneliness?  He slumbers with its dark void — an inescapable emptiness.  He would love to believe that God has a plan for him to be with someone, but he has long stopped believing that nonsense.  In conversations with people about this topic they fill his mind with false hope, and each time he falls harder with each failure.

He sits across from someone, and she says, "God has a plan for you.  The right one will come along."

What psychology 101 bullshit, he thinks to himself while nodding in false agreement to her blind faith.  He wants to say to her:  If that's true, then why aren't you attracted to me?  But he doesn't, in the effort to avoid rejection once again.

That method used to work on him, but now he has long surpassed it, because it is simply untrue.  The fact remains that if he were as attractive and intelligent as everyone claims him to be, then he would no longer be alone.  So obviously there is something wrong with him, and the mystery to that is what he strives to uncover.

He observes his peers around him being in relationships for years, others getting engaged and married and even with a child on the way.  He examines these frivolous lives, fantasising his own love life, yet here he remains buried up to his neck in the sandy exclosure of loneliness.  All he will be is just a phantom of these peoples' past, and his name will be trivially forgotten.