The definition of loneliness dictates a state of being alone in solitary isolation. My view of loneliness is very different, and instead, I view loneliness as merely living my life, each and every day, regrettably breathing and wasting air that could instead be gathered by others who value their life more than me.

I spend each and every day trying to understand the world that speeds up around me, all the while, my little bubble seems to gather friction, almost as if I am being oppressed by my environment. I feel this way even more so as I rest here momentarily, at the lake, trying to enjoy the beauty that people so often divulge in spreading the word about. The flow of the water is endless, constantly changing velocity as the wind changes tangents. The wind also affects the trees, blowing the branches back and forth, easily and vindictively, nature taking enjoyment in battling nature, a lesser evil versus a lesser evil. Nature affects nature deeply and in a way, it reminds me, as I sit here with my feet dangling over the edge of the miniature, wooden stretch of path that stretches out over the shallow end of the lake, that man affects man. One is not born lonely; at least that is what I tell myself, perhaps in a desperate attempt to find reason in my wasteful existence, and to view myself as not merely a lost entity contained within an old hermit shell. I was not born into this world, not in the slightest; I was moulded, moulded by the decrepit society that cannot undo the damage that has been done. No matter how hard they may try, alas, I remain battered and bruised, smothered with emotions I'd rather not have.

With loneliness, comes endless searching. I ponder often and thoughtfully, trying my hardest to understand myself and the earth on which I reside. I often look up to the sky for solace, watching the clouds as they idly flow past over my small head, like a distant dream, long forgotten, that has manifested into an unbearable nightmare and is ready to endure my existence, as long as I am willing to further endure my suffering. Sometimes whilst I gaze into the folds of the sky, I start to rise, as something inside me expands, creating the illusion that I am a balloon like figure, and I float, I scour the empty space that surrounds me, and this aids my search for an answer, although not for long, as reality is a much more powerful force than imagination, not to be reckoned with.

We, as humans, have a certain life essence; we need to eat in order to survive. The process of eating and digestion is a murky thing I'd rather not think about; Teeth crunching, the Ileum burping and taunting you, almost as if you were better off not eating but alas, to not eat, to not consume, is to merely waste away, to disappear into thin air, whilst your skin sags to the floor and your family doesn't even twitch, tediously continuing with the daily ritualistic fashion of their on-going monotonous lives, perhaps to honour you, perhaps to serve as a reminder of your loneliness in eternal life.

Insomnia is a by-product of loneliness. You cannot bear to sleep because you know you are only postponing an inevitable pain and providing yourself with a false reality, and this false reality fills you with glowing optimism that is hard to shake, and for a moment, if one is lucky enough to clutch this optimism, then life appears to be bearable, enjoyable even, if only for a second, until the voice of reason in the back of your conscience chirps at you like a new born chick, kicking and screaming it's little legs, begging you to feed it with realism and pessimism until the suicide season kicks in; but that's the worst case scenario. The dream world exists only within hope, however, hope is impossible to find when you are forever shrouded by a poisonous mushroom cloud consisting of acidic precipitation, that doesn't drizzle, but dominates your lifeless vessel, melting any shred of positive life with unforgettable pelts of unendurable pain.

I wish I could love. I find love to be something very different to what society dictates love should be. Forget Valentine's Day and Hugh Grant, love is feeling, not a feeling. Sure, emotions are a product of love but to experience the emotion, you have to learn how to feel, to interact with your surroundings. To feel something, to feel anything, is to truly love. I haven't felt anything in years. I cannot remember what it is like; I cannot even grasp fragments of it to convince my subconscious to trick me in to experiencing love again. My environment feels me, it moves me, it shapes my life and puts forward my fate but I cannot inadvertently breathe it in. I try, but trying leads to failing and that as a result leads to the relentless bombing of the already fragile vulnerability of my warped state of mind, collapsing my lungs as the surfactant disintegrates.

I have already said enough though, and I will not force you to listen much longer. Instead, I will leave this note. This note could be seen as a souvenir of my existence, an item for you to hold close to you in the years following this afternoon or perhaps as an awful hindrance, a thoughtless reminder of the easy way out, the baggage I carried and how I chose to accept it and move on, into a much more realised life, one that could fulfil what I wanted fulfilled and make me, at the very least, happy. I already know that you will not accept this, and you have made up your mind and wherever you are right now, you are feeling a tug at the back of your neck. This tug is telling you that something is undoubtedly wrong but unfortunately, you are not one to trust silly hunches. This note is the epicentre of my existence and this pain is the volcanic eruption that will affect everyone around me. The results will be catastrophic, I already know that but I also know that in my crippled, paraplegic heart, someone will understand out there; someone like me, anybody who has went through the troubles I have went through. I know that it is not easy but then again, in this life, what is?

And so the time has come. My transport has arrived in the form of acceptance. Some may call me a coward, ironically I hope, because they are the monsters that shrivel up underneath their bitter cloaks, judging and laughing at the despair woven judged. I am not religious, but my angel has made its descent and I must leave this earth now, hopefully for a much better planet where people can thrive of off their loneliness and achieve, never to be burdened by society's disheartening opinion and constant disapproval of what they perceive loneliness to truly be. Once again, I repeat the definition of loneliness for your grieving ears to be raped with, albeit slightly altered to make more sense, and to shed light on your troubled, unknowing minds.

A state of being alone in solitary isolation brought on by others who create the isolation and throw you inside, like chaff being thrown into an inescapable sack.