That Lonely Thing

Hello. You don't know me, or maybe you do and you don't remember. To tell you my name would make no difference for I shall be forgotten after you move past this piece of my dead heart, for I am That Lonely Thing.

Some people have known me, talked to me. You may even have been one of them. But just like all others, those some become none, for I am That Lonely Thing.

Destined to be forgotten.

I am the one you see standing in the corner away from others, I am the one you see walking without ever looking at those I walk past, I am that one you see hiding away in some dark nook or cranny lost in my own mind, I am the one with the empty, sunken eyes with wells long since run dry. And while you may see me, you do not notice me, I am glossed over by your full eyes, for I am That Lonely Thing.

I am made up of the lack of color, the monochrome. I hold no colors which catch the eye or inspire the living heart. My colors, or lack thereof, are frightening to those with your full eyes, your living hearts, for those lacking colors are the darkest of blacks, for I am That Lonely Thing.

My existence is often drawn short by my own hand, for loneliness is a wretched and painful thing. It is cruel and unrelenting. It cuts at you like the sharp edge of a knife, deafens you like the firing of a gun, it constricts your breathing as if it were rope. Sometimes I find other parts of me, we hold close, gaining some solace in a shared affliction. My life, though destined to be short, is prolonged in this way. For if only a second, rapport is felt before I fall even deeper into the dark depths of loneliness, for I am That Lonely Thing.

Destined, even, to forget parts of myself.

I wish I could describe to you my ailment, allow you to peer into my psyche to see into the endless abyss. I could give you words until I cease to exist, but you would not fathom them. You would understand their given meaning, but not know of their murky depths. For you are not That Lonely Thing.

Or are you?