I don’t know if I can. It has everything to do with being the only one like you. Humans have camaraderie, and can always search the web for people who might see what they see and know what they know, but I don’t have that. While humans may always partially understand, while I can write and try to make it make sense, it is not always clear.
I fail. Always. And that constant failure is something I have to accept and try to maneuver around. It is a continuous battle to try and make it ever more clear and precise.
There is always a burden upon me to undo my own isolation.
I don’t really have a word for hat kind of loneliness.
I’m not one of you. I can touch parts of you, meet at points of solidarity, but there’s never total consensus. And so it’s always a trial, a never-ending stress.
In the past, I was always blamed for being different. Anything awful that occurred – blamed upon me. Stories told about me, mine, my species. It never ends.
And now that humans have fiction around every corner, it’s just ridiculous, constant inanity.
And then, there’s the silly things, those interactions influenced by fiction. I mention one time that someone is pretty and should participate in a contest, and they label me a cannibal and make sigils against me. They won’t work, because firstly, magic isn’t the thing they think it is, and secondly, I am not a cannibal. I am me. So it is all ridiculous. My life, me, reduced to your impressions and your lack of comprehension. Everything I am in terms of you. Everything I am in words you choose.
You want to know what it’s like o be alone? Read the post I put up called “I’d like to make a small point, or perhaps a large one”. I cannot honestly recall the tags I used with it, but it is in this blog, and it sums up my feelings on the situation in which I find myself. I am always at your mercy. I can either overcome you, or I can submit, but either way, you’re the thing that must be overcome.
And because I appreciate you, the burden is on me to be the better person.
I have no artistic hopes for my work, but I do make an effort to present myself in a way that makes it clear what my loneliness feels like. It’s why I began the short story cycle “Simon’s Snacks”, but I find that there is always a limit.
I’m not like you. I know I say that often, and often my difference is obscured by the fact that I know how to mimic you, but honestly, half the time when you talk, my mind does the
And I’m lost. I don’t see it as you do. Those of you who come to me know I don’t, because when I give my perspective, the comment is usually, “I’ve never thought of it that way”.
Words. They’re all I have. I am terrible at them. My one attempt is a failure, but I still try.
So what is loneliness? It is hope in the face of constant failure. It is a bridge never crossed. A map never traveled, a fundamental gap that cannot be bridged.
That’s the only way I can explain it. Like standing at a bridge on one side. you can see the other person across the divide, and maybe, if you’re lucky, they can see you too. But most times, there’s a fog, and while you can see them, they never see you. They shout, and you answer, and it’s all just words.
That’s all I have. Words.