Solitude of the Lost

The solitude of the lost. His loneliness fit him like a comfortable old blanket; it protected him from the cold, the reality of what was going on outside his dark little apartment -- a world where people lived, had hopes, and dreams, where they loved, and lost, but were alive.     He had no dreams.   No dreams, at least he dared to dream.  Others may hope.  Others may hold the golden leaf in their hands, even if momentarily.

But none of that for him -- his loneliness assured him of that, and kept him safe.   And being safe he could experience that which was now truly feeling within his breast: nothing.   Because for so long he tried to feel alive, he wanted, desperately to feel part of the world, and of people's lives, to achieve some measure of success, however poorly measured,  but always. . . always, he failed.   So, feeling nothing became far safer and now, perfectly natural.  

It is so much easier now, he felt.   For it requires so much energy to wear the  mask of the living upon a face of a ghost.   People see the mask, recognize it for what it is, given half a chance.    And that was a constant battle, an epic struggle of both mental and physical will.   But that's all over now, no more pretending, no more games, no more acting as if one were alive and filled with life's dreams.  No, peace had settled, finally, on his mind, which is what happens when one gives up the struggle, gives in to relentless loneliness, now, to to be feared but embraced.    And nature had took pity on him, and gave him rest, in his cold and desolate apartment.