More and more, I feel not just like a drifter, but a ghost made of flesh and blood, wandering the Earth at random, never knowing where the next step will take me. I wonder what having friends ought to feel like, and then I wonder what the word itself means in reality. What is friendship but the safe illusion granted to lessen the weight of solitude, which in itself exists in every single one of us from the moment we are born?
We are, after all, always alone in our own heads. Only I experiences what is happening to the person, and though one might share it with others, it remains I’s experience and no one else’s.
We’re so alike in reality in so many ways and shapes, but the I within is always one and stands alone. People around us can make us forget for a time that there is that solitude of the person, for ever and ever, until perhaps the day we die and nothing matters anymore.
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