I know loneliness. It comes to me sporadically, but always leaves a lasting impression. Does that make sense?
The first time I met loneliness, I was a teenager, I think. I don't quite remember whether it was night or day. But what I remember is that it came, stayed for a short while, and left.
It made a promise however. "I will come back."
And the strangest thing of all, it actually kept its promise. That counts for something right? Someone who actually values their promises. Someone, for whom, words are not merely hollow vowels and consonants arranged together to form beautifully destructive sentences.
Loneliness appeared at mornings when I woke up. It came at the last chime of the midnight clock. It came when I finished reading the last page of a book. I began to notice a pattern.
Loneliness would always come at the beginnings and the ends. It would never gate-crash the middle. It always seemed to exist to finish the unfinished. To fill in unexplained gaps.
"You will remember me when a happy memory courses through you. You will think about me when you can see hope peering in through miniscule cracks. You will thank me when you stumble around for the first rays of light after a dark dawn. And you will pine for me when despair fills your senses."
To this day, I never quite know when loneliness will come knocking on my door. All I can do is to let it in, when it does arrive. And I let it go to when it wants to leave. For as it said once, it always comes back.
And this I know, as certain as the dust in my bones: Loneliness always keeps its promises.