2 a.m, there’s a storm brewing. While the city sleeps, my mind awakens to the call of the starless night. The silence of the hour and the noise inside my head are at war again.

I need to write. Simply write.

They call me a loner. Maybe I am. I’ve never been the popular kind with a lot of friends. The idea itself exhausts me, because it would inevitably entail going out and socialising, which is tough work. Stepping out of the house always feels like a sad melodramatic goodbye. And five minutes with the crowd is enough to drive me up the wall and all the way back to bed. I prefer being alone, armed with a stack of books, plus snacks, and a baseball bat in case anyone decides to intrude. It is very much a preference…

Well, to some extent.

I’ve thought about it countless times, each time ending up with the same conclusion. I HAVE TRUST ISSUES.
No wonder I’ve been guarded my whole life… Playing safe, never taking risks and always pushing people away.
Too comfortable in my little bubble, I couldn’t see myself growing more and more introverted. Now I’ve grown resentful of the world beyond this zone, with its lights and its hubbub, the fuss and the buzz.

I’d be lying though if I say I don’t ever feel the need for company. Hell I do! There are times when at the end of the day I find a bunch of stuff to talk about, but no one to tell it to. That’s when I realise how lonely I really am. And believe me, loneliness is the worst sickness.
But it’s not simple for me to let people in. And it’s even harder to let my feelings out, to share it with someone and put my heart out in the open.

Because I’m a coward. I’m terrified of depth, intimacy, closeness and the kind of hurt they can cause.
There is always a gnawing fear that if they get too close they’d see my flaws, they’d see me for who I really am. There is the fear of rejection, that I won’t be good enough or fun enough for people to want to be with me. There is the fear of betrayal, that someday they’d leave and end up giving all my secrets away. And worst of all, the fear of losing. Because I know how self destructive I can get when I lose something I love.
So, people don’t shut me out. I shut them out instead so they wouldn’t get to. People don’t abandon me. I leave before they can. People don’t know me. I have built a wall beyond which they cannot venture. And all they get to see is what I let them see. Only from a safe distance. It’s like a defense mechanism with which I protect myself. And within my four-walled room, it’s an endless battle with loneliness. Even more, an endless struggle to relieve my heart of all its unspoken emotions.

Reminds me of what Maya Angelou said-

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

So I write and I write. When I write, I’m fearless. When I write, I’m honest. When I write, I’m truly myself, bared to the bone, and not the watered down version. Writing is the best thing that has ever happened to me. The relationship I have with it is something I cannot compare with anyone or anything else. The secrets I’ve spilt, the happiness I’ve shared and the pain I’ve bled on paper, I could never speak of it.

I write to relieve myself from the heartaches of life. I write to regain my strength. I write because I’m lonely. I write because I find a friend in it. I write because I’d die if I didn’t. But above all, I discover myself when I write. In the quietness of a night like this, somewhere between the ink and the emotions, I find my soul all over again.

“I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.” – Sylvia Plath


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