The solitude, the seclusion, the aloneness has you feeling a little desperate, itchy even for another’s sound and presence. You sit all alone. You rock, and you rock, and you rock. You rock sitting in a rocking chair in a cabin in the woods hearing thing, wondering if anyone is actually there. Inside your head, you think you can feel the presence of someone nearby, you can even hear it. But this is a common occurrence in your world, when there is this feeling so fleeting that you can never be sure of a nearby companions, not knowing if it’s even there, let alone whether its human or not.There is a feeling, but no touch. There’s an echo but no words. There is always this feeling, but no touch because you are in solitude. You cruise down the long paved roadway at 10:42. It’s sad when your only control in consistency lies in controlling the time you drive at. Today is a sunny day, the picture of happiness some may call it. As you gaze as far into the distance as you can, which is where the horizon ends, there you see cars. Empty cars, mobile cars devoid of life. These cars are normal to you, though they may not be to an outsider. They are driverless cars. Through your own eyes, you clearly see constantly moving automobiles, all vacated. If you were to view through the eyes of anyone else, you be able to spot many drivers and passengers located inside the cars. You’d see a man here; a woman there; a daughter here; a son there. You would, but you don’t because you are in solitude. And in solitude, you don’t notice these things, these people. You sit at a desk, in a classroom, in a school. As your eyes openly scan the room, you wonder if anyone will arrive through the door, or the window, or from anywhere really. You ponder if a single student will come in and say, “hi, I need a friend and you look to be it.” But no, that won’t happen because you won’t see that potential friend waltz in. And all of this because you are in solitude. Glancing at the blackboard and seeing a levitating chalk stick that reveals magically appearing words, and there are moving chairs. This only clarifies the assumption that you aren’t alone, but this world of solitude is your prison. Celebrations are nothing but a traumatizing event opportunity. Thanksgiving dinner is the same as normal, lonely. As your hands hang at waist level, you share what you are thankful for. As you look ahead, your mouth waters just taking a peak of the food. This is the same food that floated by itself into the dining room 10 minutes ago. An outsider would’ve found this display strange, psychotic even, but to you it is perfectly normal. Every year on this day you sit around with disappearing food as your only company. At Christmas you discover the truth. Again. Unless Santa and his many elves live your attic, there are beings who you assume that are your family that tape and wrap presents. When you wake up and see lights all over the house, you hope that they can unblind you. Unblind you from your limited sense of vision, of people. As you slowly, tentatively , open the gifts, you wonder if it is wrong to take objects from invisible beings, from strangers, from ghosts, from the beasts of solitude. On Halloween you don’t dress up, only retreat to the depths of your house. Hearing of haunting is bad enough, but experiencing it is even worse, especially when in solitude. The repetitive ringing of the doorbell only to be opened and reveal nothing. You place out candy for a beast of strange appetite, and when you open the door it’s gone, leaving you hoping that the offering was sufficient. When peaking out side of your window you see doors opening and closing constantly almost like they are swaying in the breeze. The demons in your head tell me that they are beckoning, but you don’t listen, because these are the voices of solitude. Whether it’s Halloween with spooky doors, Christmas with ghostly gifts,Thanksgiving with appearing dishes, in a classroom with levitating chalk sticks, on the road with empty cars or in your isolated cabin with rocking chairs, it’s loneliness. Its solitude, seclusion, aloneness. It’s not a disease, and there is no straight jacket temporary cure. This is solitude.
     The solitude, the seclusion, the aloneness has you feeling a little desperate, itchy even for another’s sound and presence.
     You sit all alone. You rock, and you rock, and you rock. You rock sitting in a rocking chair in a cabin in the woods h... poetry stories
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alysha40025201
alysha40025201 Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
The solitude. The horrible solitude.

The solitude, the seclusion, the aloneness has you feeling a little desperate, itchy even for another’s sound and presence. You sit all alone. You rock, and you rock, and you rock. You rock sitting in a rocking chair in a cabin in the woods hearing thing, wondering if anyone is actually there. Inside your head, you think you can feel the presence of someone nearby, you can even hear it. But this is a common occurrence in your world, when there is this feeling so fleeting that you can never be sure of a nearby companions, not knowing if it’s even there, let alone whether its human or not.There is a feeling, but no touch. There’s an echo but no words. There is always this feeling, but no touch because you are in solitude. You cruise down the long paved roadway at 10:42. It’s sad when your only control in consistency lies in controlling the time you drive at. Today is a sunny day, the picture of happiness some may call it. As you gaze as far into the distance as you can, which is where the horizon ends, there you see cars. Empty cars, mobile cars devoid of life. These cars are normal to you, though they may not be to an outsider. They are driverless cars. Through your own eyes, you clearly see constantly moving automobiles, all vacated. If you were to view through the eyes of anyone else, you be able to spot many drivers and passengers located inside the cars. You’d see a man here; a woman there; a daughter here; a son there. You would, but you don’t because you are in solitude. And in solitude, you don’t notice these things, these people. You sit at a desk, in a classroom, in a school. As your eyes openly scan the room, you wonder if anyone will arrive through the door, or the window, or from anywhere really. You ponder if a single student will come in and say, “hi, I need a friend and you look to be it.” But no, that won’t happen because you won’t see that potential friend waltz in. And all of this because you are in solitude. Glancing at the blackboard and seeing a levitating chalk stick that reveals magically appearing words, and there are moving chairs. This only clarifies the assumption that you aren’t alone, but this world of solitude is your prison. Celebrations are nothing but a traumatizing event opportunity. Thanksgiving dinner is the same as normal, lonely. As your hands hang at waist level, you share what you are thankful for. As you look ahead, your mouth waters just taking a peak of the food. This is the same food that floated by itself into the dining room 10 minutes ago. An outsider would’ve found this display strange, psychotic even, but to you it is perfectly normal. Every year on this day you sit around with disappearing food as your only company. At Christmas you discover the truth. Again. Unless Santa and his many elves live your attic, there are beings who you assume that are your family that tape and wrap presents. When you wake up and see lights all over the house, you hope that they can unblind you. Unblind you from your limited sense of vision, of people. As you slowly, tentatively , open the gifts, you wonder if it is wrong to take objects from invisible beings, from strangers, from ghosts, from the beasts of solitude. On Halloween you don’t dress up, only retreat to the depths of your house. Hearing of haunting is bad enough, but experiencing it is even worse, especially when in solitude. The repetitive ringing of the doorbell only to be opened and reveal nothing. You place out candy for a beast of strange appetite, and when you open the door it’s gone, leaving you hoping that the offering was sufficient. When peaking out side of your window you see doors opening and closing constantly almost like they are swaying in the breeze. The demons in your head tell me that they are beckoning, but you don’t listen, because these are the voices of solitude. Whether it’s Halloween with spooky doors, Christmas with ghostly gifts,Thanksgiving with appearing dishes, in a classroom with levitating chalk sticks, on the road with empty cars or in your isolated cabin with rocking chairs, it’s loneliness. Its solitude, seclusion, aloneness. It’s not a disease, and there is no straight jacket temporary cure. This is solitude.

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