This is a rather personal post, one that’s actually belongs on a personal blog. I’m just reflecting on some of my feelings, in hopes that somebody around the world can also –to some extent or another– connect. It’s really the greatest feeling when your feelings reach others. 🙂 It’s a little bit disjointed, as I haven’t been writing for a while now (!) and it’s currently 11 PM. I should really go to bed.
When we first met, I was dressed in adorable overalls (denim ones) and had hair in pigtail braids. Also, my hair was in a strange dishevelled position, due to my father’s rather amateur hairdressing skills (“I’m a doctor, not a hairdresser,” he said, chopping a million strands a second. Then realising he cut it too short). I sat in front of the television, wide-eyed and mouth open, while my scorning mother tried to jab more food in my mouth. It was no use; I would neither chew nor swallow. My eyes fixed on the colourful box in front of me, flashing with vivid images, entrancing me. It may be the closest thing to magic I ever physically experienced.
Yet, as my mother tried to move away from me, I clutched at her arm. As quickly as the flashing image caught my attention, I lost focus of it. I begged my mum to stay beside me. Her frown deepened. (“Why do you always need someone beside you? I don’t have time for this.”) But, she didn’t say them unkindly, just with a matter-of-fact tone. She left my side then, disappearing into the bedrooms, ready to plunge into books –of human anatomy, biology, medicine. I sat in the living room, alone. Dad, also, was studying in the other room.
Without the television, the house would be silent. You could even hear a pin-drop. It was a constant emptiness that frightened me.
It’s funny, because that television costed a heap of money. It was purchased during a time where electronics were new (and flashy) and still had high manufacturing costs. Yet, I dismissed its existence the minute I could talk to someone. Just like that, the television had no significance anymore. Although not costing a single cent, human contact cannot be replaced –not by a single gadget or device.
I guess most of my life I’m a little lonelier. When it comes to people, I’m generally easily emotional. Regardless of circumstances, I always think the best of people; I have constant music in the background, because I scared of the silence. My happiest moments are when my parents talk to someone on the phone (people rarely come to our house; we’re not exactly the most social of families). My parents are not on the best terms with each other, so hearing them speak so happily, so freely with their peers… makes me happy too.
So, Loneliness, you are no stranger to me; you are the source of who I am. I like wrapping myself in words and stories, because I feel surrounded; protected. I fuel my happiness with other people’s happiness. Often, when people are sad, I’m more emotionally attached to their feelings. Constant isolation makes you sensitive to the “real world” –to every thought, action, feeling, expression. This may be more of a personality flaw, this constant state of being moved by the world, but it’s a large part.
Perhaps this is why I’m so drawn to literature and stories; it’s filled with stories about humans, by humans, for humans.