I’ve always lived life on the outside of me, outside of this world. A passing traveler always on the outside looking in, latching upon the slightest warmth, fantasizing upon an entire world based on each morsel of heat. I am doomed to walk from window to window, house to house for subsistence, never stepping foot into their interiors.
Cold is my soul, chilled by abject loneliness, my heart frozen still, frost bitten by indifference. Fingers stiff from hands raised against the blistering winds of solitude. I walk on narrow cobblestone streets, shoulders grazing rows of houses, watching, walking, watching.
Maybe this is how I age, shrinking back within myself, hardening, hurting, helpless, dying. Surrounded by people, open doors, “Welcome Home!” mats, warm fireplaces, yet I trudge forward, boots crunching in the snow, obstinately clutching my independence against my chest.
Last year I’ve learnt that loneliness is a dangerous thing that have led me down needle-riddled, thrash-strewn back alleys into the mouths of blood thirsty wolves. I was vulnerable yet hopeful that redemption lies in the warmth of bodies who have lent residence to too many vagabonds.
This year, I peeled off the grimy coat that clung onto my body with false security. Wholesome 2017. I am clean and pure. Yet I am teetering on a treacherous tightrope, braving the Siberian winds of loneliness, above the carnal flames of lust licking my bare feet with every trembling step.
This chapter ends shrouded in the mists of self-doubt and abject loneliness, the downsides of a life of no commitments.
But the pages keep flipping. And then what happens?
(I do hope it does not commence with a relapse)