A Woman In Solace

[Unedited. Rough Draft.] A woman who sought and drowned in the comfort of loneliness. Simone Finley tells a story of her own.

I

Through the acts of apathy, I simply ran. I ran away from it all and it’s the best, damned thing I could have ever done, or so I thought for at least about 2 years before regretting it all.

The thought of needing to run away, just redundantly complaining and dreaming, turning out to be packing up my bags, taking my cats and booking a ticket. The autopilot from an overwhelming desire of finally having done it, and I have done it, I finally left everything and everyone. I went to a place where only a single friend of mine will recognize me. The most convenient place I could afford with the money I have and having to only feed my cat and me. I’ve never felt so alive, never felt so good, and I felt good at that moment. I wanted that feeling for so long. It’s what I’ve always wanted, now snatched by careless hands.

The freedom after years of endless yearning. I have finally tasted it; I have achieved it in the most cowardly way. Running away is a petty choice, but it was a step closer to my dreams and reality. It was a step closer to my calamity.

The first six months, wandering around. I looked for the place where my friend I’ve met on the internet a long time ago and stayed there. Now having a solid place, I then looked for a job until I could be on my own. Adjusted into my comfortable livelihood only after a few months, I now have my apartment studio. I finally have my things. I have made money, done making money from my habits. With a clear head and hard work, one of my life’s fulfilment wishes has been granted when I took off writing 4 books. I still live alone with my cat who died, and I have not talked to anyone for years now. I endured all my selfish needs for people and made it into life. I felt nothing like back then; I felt like a whole new person, a different one, but not quite.

I felt old. Having thoughts all by myself, I realized I’m alone, truly alone. The dreams I had as a kid, now as an adult, I’m still dreaming, but why does it feel so different? The purpose of me having those dreams, they felt so wrong. I finally felt the long-awaited happiness, but I felt so wronged. I know why and I don’t want to think about it. I refuse to listen to it and I’m not going back there again. I don’t belong there anymore. I never did. I’m here now, and living, sad but living. I wasn’t sure either.

I feel unattached to my body. I feel a lot of things. I do things on impulse and it’s… tiring. I’m so tired, I don’t know what to feel anymore. What’s the purpose… there is no further to the things I’ve accomplished and yet to do so. I don’t have to think of the things I did back then. I’ve set the goals myself and carried them on with me alone. You can’t take it back. Life goes on that way and that’s how I thought…

Don’t think about thinking. Few words have always affected me, everything affects me. But when those months came, I suddenly had a thought. I don’t want to feel alone.

Fin

II

After those six months, it started again. My mental health declined, and I shut down. I stopped coming to work; cutting off again. I couldn’t keep everything up with all the silent pressure emitting from my head. The bills, my comfortable hobbies became tiring, the art supplies and letters became a part of the walls I’m suddenly and yet again rebuilding.

Somehow, I found solace in loneliness. I became more aware of the things I declined and all I know is that I shut down, my place always a mess, becoming messier as the day passes. The foul, disgusting stench of rot felt in sync with my soul. Old emotions broke the spineless wall and embraced me. I became someone so out of reach, even with my own hands later on. My brain melted, and I did all the things I feared, facing them with more toxicity, and I could only be aware and not do anything about the situation, I could only watch myself ruin everything I have ever worked for, for those nice few months I came committed but felt wronged to do.

I couldn’t run away, not this time. The pretty colours I skipped, the fragrance of flowers that slipped from my nose as I overworked myself with obsession. Only to spiral into my dull, resurfaced habits. I had nothing and no one to rely on this time. The cat who had been my sole life and light, now gone too. The only one who I needed and stayed throughout my redundant and discombobulated thoughts. My selfishness felt damned.

These days, I keep forgetting a lot of things, and for a moment I could only cherish what I could and couldn’t remember since it helped ease the aches for even a while. I didn’t even know how I managed before then, but the realization of pushing everybody away and that I had become truly alone made it harder. This undeserved happiness...

My comfort is not enough for someone like me.

Fin

Author's Note

Note this is unedited and only a rough draft. Would like to receive any kind/form of criticism to learn from(e.g parallelism, punctuations). Would take an honest and even harshest review.