I don't know what it is.
I understand that we need one another, I don't know what for but no one is an island or even a peninsula.
It was my habit with the only friend I ever had who really mattered to exchange confidences and to make confessions to one another. This is a pattern I keep falling into before realization strikes as I've done it again, I've fallen into the pattern of the only friendship that I have ever known.
This telling of my secrets to others is a lifelong habit that I cannot break. That is why my blog is called Confessions. I knew that would be a good title because I know me.
Still working on it, and often I go for long periods without dropping bits of personal information. After all, there really isn't that much to tell about me, I think myself ordinary and yet people look at me strangely. Maybe it is that I think so much, I love to think. I think things important that others do not, they only want to know about stuff that personally effects them. I know now that mental scampering around inside the brain is something that many people just do not do. And if something is on my mind that I am worried about, I want to talk about it. A lot. This helps me. Talking too much might not be the worst character flaw on the planet but it is a flaw. Then again I can go for long periods in total silence, just taking in what others say. I swing back and forth helplessly. Does anyone else do this?
Still this joy of words, this bright illuminating flower of time when you read a maestro of words, a virtuoso of verbs, remarkable sentences, am I the only one of any person that I now know?
I think the answer is yes.
It's loneliness perhaps that chills me when I see the Dicken's like mist outside, a literary thought that I cannot share with anyone. There are millions of things that remind me of literary things and no one to tell them to. That is the touch of being the only person here and not there, not their there, in the whole wide world.