We are many. Yet we are not together. And it feels like this vastly expanding gap is growing between those of us being crushed by the constant, ever-consuming sense of existing completely separate from anyone. Especially the ones who love us and who we love back. Craving more, chasing less. Growing older, letting the presence of the present define our circumstances. To dream beyond the moment is to wish for something we cannot grasp in our palms, tiny grains of powder soft sand. Holding on tight to the here and the now and the this. So fearful, so apprehensive, so desperately distant from the will be, maybe, someday.
We, the lonely. We are here.
We shift back and forth but never forward. We sway from the branch of uncertainty, unable to untether the rope we have been tied up with for so long. So we anchor our thoughts and our feelings, our seemingly unattainable hopes, to the tangible idea of stability. The here, the now, the this. We are a reminder of our own existence. Soon to be defining moments of our histories but never parts of anyone else’s. This, is the lonely. Here, are the lonely. Now, the lonely swing; to and from what is known and what cannot be –