The house on the hill

Only the lonely know loneliness

There's a house on the hill. There it is, right on the edge. It has been there for longer than anyone can recall. Some even say it was always there. Probably even before there even was a hill. It's an old house, that's for sure. Yet, it somehow has lightbulbs and running water. 

Nobody knows the old man that lives there. Nobody remembers his name or how he got there in the first place. Nobody seems to care enough. Only the kids pay him any attention, making up stories about his story.

"He's a child-taker!" says one.

"No, he's a wizard. And a powerful one." says another.

"I bet he's a ghost!" says the loudest and biggest of them all.

And being the loudest and biggest, he's ought to be right. "A ghost it is, then," everyone agreed.

Some brave kids dared venture near the house, but not so near. Nobody wanted to be taken by ghost, or a wizard, or a child-taker. Some claim to have seen him. Some swear he flew over them. Some are sure to have heard chants and incantations coming out of the house.

Only one little child, alone all the time, knows who he is. He knows who the man is, for he is him, and him is he. Only those that are truly alone understand loneliness, and in that understanding, they become one in their solitude, sharing a secret that is never to be spoken, never to be heard.

Author's Note

I wanted to convey a paradox. I'm sure some here have felt what I'm trying to say. Loneliness, true loneliness, hits hard and right in the middle of the heart. Nobody is meant to be alone, but some of us have been alone, truly alone, and that is something that not much understand. It is something that unites the lonely ones in a strange way, and the moment it is shared, it vanishes.