Some words don’t come from a place of resolution—they come from recognizing the weight you’re still carrying. This piece is one of those.

I once thought of loneliness as a fleeting feeling. An emotion I could control with crowds and noise. A predator that I could actually escape. However, that definition of lonely, filtered through naivety, was hauntingly wrong. I’ve learned that sometimes predators don’t simply kill, they relish the chase. And so lonely, in its full glory, waits in the shadows. Emerging and retreating time and time again to torture me with hope. Allowing me the belief that I’ve won. Allowing me the relief that accompanies surviving. Yet, it sits, patiently. Lurking in the beyond. Toying with me just enough, that when it pounces, I realize too late that I’ve no energy left to fight. My legs have run this race too many times. I am a prey caught in its trap. A trap that ensnared me the first time lonely set its sights on me. Only living within the confines it deemed appropriate, living with borrowed joy and happiness. Because loneliness is not simply a feeling. It’s a disease. A deep ache that corrodes and mars the light within. Burning black holes which spew insecurity, hopelessness, and lack like acid. Each spew wreaks more havoc, creating more holes. Until all I’m left with is nothing. Nothing… and everything.