Another night spent at the keyboard as though it were some holy object that delivers me from myself. As I write this, My wife sleeps on the sofa and my daughter sits in her room with her own holy relic, happily surfing the internet. As I type, my mind races to keep ahead of what I want to write. At least it almost always does. Tonight is a little different. Tonight, the words struggle to manifest themselves into a coherent form of expression. Emotion seems to slow their flow like they were a stone falling slowly through a vat of honey.

I paused for a while and thought about this. Where is this disharmony between thought and expression coming from? It was then that I realized, I knew what the problem was. I feel empty and used, tired and withdrawn. My entire being cries out in despair. I am lonely. I am lonely and starved for warmth where there is only sameness, avoidance, indifference, and apathy. My wife sleeps and escapes another night of interaction. My daughter isolates herself to avoid dealing with her father who is a shell of the hero she once loved. How did I get this and why? It seems that it hasn’t been that long since I was happy, enthusiastic, and loving every moment of everyday. Now I am tired and cold and feel death waiting around the corner like some punk gang banger who would kill with indifference as long as he could score his next hit of crack. The grim reaper no longer wears a black cloak but a hoody with a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Instead of a scythe, he sports a 9mm Glock and rides in a blinged-out Infinity rather than a pale horse. I sense him there waiting for me. Almost surrendering, I listen to him call me and I almost go. He uses a melodic whisper that enters the ear almost silently and over time it builds until you can hear nothing else. Once more I don’t surrender to his hustle. I refuse.

I resume writing. The words are empty, pleading. They paint a masterpiece of words that all describe pain; deep, saturating pain that is piercing and hollow and resonate. I am lonely. I am old and no longer useful. I am old and no longer significant to anyone anywhere. I am old and dieing of loneliness when I really want to live again and love and make love. Make love…it’s been three long years since the last time and before that, many years since it was exciting, filled with exploration and expression and love. Those days are gone. They are nothing but trash being blown across an empty lot that was once me.

Loneliness is a strange diet of desperation and hopeless dreams. It suffocates me and tears at me like a pit bull whipped by its master. I travel across the internet through my sacred object, my relic of hope and seek redemption. It doesn’t come in the church of youth. They have cast out their fears and those like me that would make them fear because they see themselves in forty years every time they look at me. I stand at the gates of love and joy and can only look in. This community is not for the walking dead or those who are cast out to die. Love, intimacy, warmth, touch, feeling, and life are denied me. So I keep writing and worshiping the deities of dreams. Outside, I hear the cry of an animal or at least I think it is. Maybe its just me, sometime soon.