Sheer Loneliness Dissected.
on October 18, 2002.
The - L - of - ONE- If I could dissect loneliness,
the stench of it would
overwhelm the senses.
All those long Saturday
nights in a recliner, tucked in a shirt or blouse
that has seen no one
but the wearer for days.
Why bother to even
change when there's no where to go, but
back into the chair and forward to bed.
A remote control
becomes good company for one so remote.
Change is wrought by one finger, as worlds of love appear
on a dusty screen of inadmissible passage.
on all channels, mocking and haunting
the soul of one yearning for what is
seen but seldom felt.
If it were possible, to separate it from mankind, the dissection of
loneliness once analyzed, would have no heart,
it would be eroded away, an empty chamber like
those of the great pharaohs beaten into dust
by endless solitude. A mummified or pappa-fied
remnant of what could have been and wasn't.
It's arms would
be wrapped tightly around itself seeking
comfort in an imaginary hug.
It's eyes would be
full of saline drippings, long dried in powdered rivulets, that once formed a constant flow into a river of the damned.
Sex organs would
be shriveled up from lack of use,
just raisins that once bore the grapes of
passions wines. Fingers would twitch,
and move involuntarily, longing for the
company of five other gently interlocking fingers
to comfort and caress. The contents of the
stomach would be sparse, for one eats much less
when they eat alone. The liver would
be nearly pickled, in some loneliness
specimens studied, ]from the constant
drowning of the sorrows, by finding solace,
in bottles of forgetfulness. None contains one. Done contains one. Bone contains one. All would be exposed in the the harsh light
of the examination room, which would reveal
untidy hair, and pale skin from long hours indoors
where the opportunities to be rejected aren't as daunting. Ears would be almost
sealed by the waxing of the waning, for a soft voice
whispering of love. The soul, a mere
shadow, dark and wispy would slip away
before the scalpel cut it deeper then
life already had. The brain would
contain reruns, as well as erased
episodes of the pain, of all that love once brought, played over and over again, a marathon of what
was and is no more. For loneliness is a cancer, it invades ones
self and eats away at all that is of worth. Love on the other hand is a radiating salvation to most, but many pass through life untouched too often, by it's beaming rays of hope. Loneliness leaves men beating at a hardness that refuses
to abate into softness, and women stirring a softness into a tiny budding hardness that only offers them feelings
of emptiness. All over the world,
the lonely sit and wait, surrounded by others,
thousands, who are just as lonely too.
Some have bitter partners, just upstairs, and are left alone in a house of two. Some have old flames
that are burning low, and are still in hopes of rekindling, but the torch no longer carried, lies untouched by passions sparks.
Some have never
known true love, and have only been
used like tissues that are wiped and flung away.
Many spend years in the facade of a marriage that
is supported by only one
who is using the children as the glue. If I could dissect loneliness I would cut it free from all who are bent under its dead weight, as a slasher intent
I would run madly across the world,
severing it's ties that bind, and when at long last exhausted I reached my humble abode, I would save the last slice for me, and carve away any trace of the L of one that torments even my soul at
the lowest moments of my life.
© 2010 Matthew Frederick Blowers III