The fact of existence will proclaim: people will judge the facade. They’ll be vicious to pry upon the superficial, never the loneliness. They’ll pick on you like freshly ripened grapes, ready to be consumed – devoured.
And it gets lonelier. Amplified by the emptiness of your whole being. Ultimately, you’ll be hallow, weighless. You will hear yourself think. Broken, it says. Lonely but not alone. You stand in a crowd with a sea with familiar faces but none too close to stay for the darkest hour. Because they thrive on the spotlight you bring. Feasting on the platter you offer. Free to take, unwilling to give.
You beg to be spared of the iniquity. Waiting to be absolved of such cruelty. Aiming at an unknown target. No one’s there. No one who’s kind not to persecute you even more. Forcing yourself to defend blindly.
You drift along the river, like a useless log. There’s nothing else to do. Just drift.