All I do is talk to myself now.
This loneliness is killing me. I used to think I wouldn't mind being in solitary confinement for years on-end, but the effects of sustained long-term loneliness are far more damaging than I ever thought. I found a blogring today, called "
no seriously, i have no friends" and I considered joining it. I don't even know how many years it's been since I've had a real life friend. And I've come to the point where I don't even have virtual friends anymore. They're all fucking gone. And so I find myself here, talking to myself.
It's not like I was looking for some kind of acceptance. I started writing this because I wanted to maintain a log of how I felt, objectively and subjectively over a long term so I could observe patterns in my thoughts and behaviors. Thats why this xanga doesn't have a clever name -- thats why its so clinical:
I am the INFP 2w3 Experiment.
I wish I had somebody to hang out with. Somebody who understood and felt and thought the same kinds of things, that I could "get" and who could "get" me. Somebody I could do things with. Somebody I could do nothing with. It's that image in my mind again, of lying in a bed of wildflowers, staring up at the sky in wide-eyed amazement, touching fingertips, and knowing that we are not alone.
I live in my mind these days, trying desperately to convince myself that these delusions are real. That instead of sitting in a room alone for years on end, I just went skipping, hopping, dancing, twirling, hugging, and falling through an endless field of wildflowers with a companion who is not a figment of my hope and imagination, but a real, living breathing person who I can reach out and touch my fingers to; who I could pull close against my chest with my hands around her thin waist for an extended moment before twirling away again.
This is what we would do if we were real.
We would set up a small table by the seashore, with a white linen tablecloth on it. And we would have tea. We would have a case made of bombay mahogany, filled with small tins of tea. I would pour you tea, and call you "dear," and you would thank me and call me "mister." You, there in your thin, flowy white dress; me in ascot, morning coat and striped trousers. We would sit there, with a selection of delectable bite-sized hors d'oeuvres, and watch the waves roll onto the shore; as we sampled teas from around the world. I would make you a giant origami crane out of my napkin, and set it down in front of you. You would smile at its absurdity, but then just keep sipping on your tea.
I think I'm starting to unravel -- my sanity. Or I'm starting to realize that I may have been unraveled for years now, and I haven't been lucid until recently. What if the last few years haven't been real? What if I've been confined to this room for years, and I've made everybody and everything up as part of a coping mechanism?
No, that's not possible. I've only come here recently, after moving out of my house into this room. It's been years, I think. What if I'm not really
The Dish, and I just wished I was? No, that's not possible. I know the password and it's a ten-character string of random digits, letters and symbols that I couldn't have hacked; that I can only type from muscle memory. And we write alike; and I know how to do everything that he posts.
This loneliness is killing me.
