The worst sort of loneliness is the quiet kind, when all the world is hushed beneath a blanket of palpable solitude. I have no real thoughts in my mind right now, just vague impressions of emotion and memory, the experiences of the last few months are ghosts and whispers, shadows and dust. It's sunny outside, and the children are playing, but I feel disconnected from life, and from myself. I'm sad, and I don't know why, and I'm remembering the better days of just a few years ago when I should be concentrating on tomorrow.
It's a strange sort of reverie, really, not something that will cling for long, so I'm indulging a bit. Melancholy would be my middle name... if it wasn't Thomas.
It's a strange sort of reverie, really, not something that will cling for long, so I'm indulging a bit. Melancholy would be my middle name... if it wasn't Thomas.