I sit in a study lounge on the seventh floor.
I see San Francisco glisten and flicker in the distance.
I have blue chalk all over my palms.
My nose is pink and my fingers are numb.
It’s a quiet, cold Friday night.
It’s definitely November.
As I sit with my books and notes and confusions,
I am saddened by the lack of connection I feel to this place, these people, this…life.
I find far more excitement in my studies than in those who surround me.
I find more purpose in sleep than in building friendships I don’t want to have with my lovely, intelligent peers.
I find comfort in my relationship with my God and my family.
I feel loved, yes, but so very lost.
Perhaps “misplaced” is a better term, I don’t know.
I know that I made the right choice by moving out here – not because I envisioned myself embracing this place, but because it is the temporary/necessary/intermediate step that I needed to take.
I needed this for something better to be available to me in the future.
But I’ve grown so apathetic.
I have accepted this feeling of loneliness.
My mind has established that this is not home, nor could it ever be.
But my heart keeps telling me that something is just…wrong.
Life is so very beautiful and so very short.
It’s about building lasting relationships.
Living is not intended to be a solitary activity – regardless of this popular idea that one is “forever alone”
No, we are forever alone because we choose to be forever alone.
We choose to keep love inside our own hearts, and wrap love around ourselves. We refuse to share it with strangers who may need it more than anything. We refuse to build frienships because we are too selfish, we are too focused on our own lives and aspirations.
But what good are achieved dreams,
If at the end of the day, you can’t sit next to a fire with a warm cup of tea, fresh cookies, and laugh, cry, and share life with a friend, a lover, heck – even a kind stranger?
What good is extreme independence and solitude, if it inhibits our ability to love and be loved?