A letter from May 13th, 2021

hey, i’m lonely. there used to be other things i’d think about when i’m sad, but now there’s just this one thing. i don’t seem to care as much as i used to about my parents not knowing i don’t believe in god anymore. it doesn’t seem to matter that much. it doesn’t hurt as much. now, it’s that i’m lonely, and that is the cause of every other problem, and that is the culmination of every other problem. i lay on my stomach at night and i say to myself in my head, i’m lonely i’m lonely i’m lonely lonely lonely i’m lonely. and you’d think the word would stop making sense and turn to gibberish, but it never does. lonely never stops making sense, and it always sounds the same, and it’s never new or surprising or interesting. i wonder why that is. i don’t mean to be dramatic. just, i’ve tried not to care about it. i’ve tried to be cool with it, to have it make me cool, to be the one who doesn’t care that nobody’s there. and sometimes i really don’t. because i do honestly like being alone, and being alone does feel right. that’s the problem, that being alone feels like it will always be my default state. i want to be alone, but i don’t always want to want what i want. i make up people in my head instead, and they are people who are loud and wild enough to find me and love me without me having to try to find them, because that’s how pitiful and cowardly i am. one look and i’m praying to all the gods of the pantheon that a stranger will talk to me and tell me her name and her favorite musician, just something to start with. everything i write is about being lonely, even the stuff that doesn’t seem like it. i only write when i’m lonely, and i usually am. i feel lonely when i walk and talk and think and look out windows. i don’t feel any less lonely when i drive, but there it starts to feel a bit numbed, a bit farther away. everything about me is far away. everything, i think, is deep, deep down. everything is hidden. nobody will ever want to look, and i couldn’t blame them, because i wouldn’t want to fall in love with a fake person either, i wouldn’t want to wait for the real person either. i’m lonely and i’m talking to you, for god’s sake, and you and i are the same ******* person but i’m lonely and i’m talking to you. i want to know somebody, but you’re the only person, and sometimes you don’t even make sense. i keep thinking life isn’t going to be anything like i want it to be, and i know i’m right because i want it to be imaginary stuff i made up in my head when i was crying. nobody will come up to me for no reason, nobody will ask me what kind of music i like or why i don’t like mystery novels or what my favorite french word is, and anyway those are all stupid things and i hate myself and i don’t even think it’s bad to hate myself, it just is. how could i not? it’s not a very fiery hate, anyway. it’s a weary hate, if that’s possible. weary, weary hate, wearing lines into the carpet with my pacing back and forth and back for hours. trying not to think about something, or making myself think about it so hard that i think i might actually never feel happy again. dramatic. unnecessary. do i even like reading, or just the idea? do i even like rock music, or just the idea? do i like anything? is anything about me actual? i’m tired. i don’t want to ask questions, i just want you to know, because i’m so tired and it’s the least physical kind of tiredness, it’s in my head and my thoughts and i’m lonely. there’s nowhere for my self to go. and i’m sad because i don’t want you to also be lonely. if you’re lonely, i don’t know what to do. but i know you probably will be. remember? meant to be alone. default state. i’m sorry. i’m sorry i’m not better. you’re the person i’m sorry for the most, because even if i hurt other people, you’ll always be the one i hurt the most.