“Why don’t you spend more time with people?”
They ask, usually with what I can only describe as pity in their eyes.
I do wonder how sad I might seem to others, my odd choices often raising brows. But how do I explain that’s how I look at you and your equally odd choices?
We are the same, me and them, just different. Like looking at a face under a different light, from a different angle.
I am frequently by myself; with others, there’s too much noise. I once believed I could live by my lonesome, needing no one at all. How naive of me.
Perhaps this is what brought me closer to books, the noise they make doesn’t hurt me.
It’s ironic how loneliness is my preferred companion. Nothing better than your own thoughts to treat you of your ego, and human company of loneliness. It’s a strange cycle, you see. As the elders often say: “Too much of anything is bad for you.”
Even comfort. Especially comfort.
I depend on comforting loneliness a little too much because I prefer breathing to people and in the company of the latter, the former struggles.
theskepticalhermit 