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On being alone

There were days when I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as them because everyday reminded me of how I alone I was. There was only so much I could do everyday to calm this nerve. I would wake up and have nightmares that I couldn’t soothe and so I would pick myself up and walk out as an act of defiance.

If I was gonna feel lonely then I was going to do it alone.

I would walk for hours on the beachfront, sit when my feet got tired and go back to them when the remnant of last nights nightmare would fade. It was my ritual that I never failed to do.

It became a habit that I tried to keep secret for a while. But the bags underneath my eyes would always betray me. It hurt to be awake but ever more so to sleep. The night didn’t seem so scary to me anymore. It was a beautiful and inviting. What was I to be scared of? I was already living through a hard time. How much harder could it get?

It didn’t matter to me that I was in shorts that allowed the bottom of my butt cheeks to peak through, or that I had a single thin grey jacket to cover my bare chest. Maybe I wanted something bad to happen. Just so that I could mark the day.

I no longer remember who that person was. I don’t know if I should care who that person was. I’m alive now and that should be all that matters.

Right?

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