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Empty words

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I type “ loneliness” into the Google search box. I don’t know why. I just do.
After an aggravating two seconds of keenness, I receive my answer; it’s an “unpleasant feeling in which a person feels a strong sense of emptiness and solitude resulting from inadequate levels of social relationships.”
Concentration and lip biting kick in the second the rusted branches of my brain embark on the process of interpretation.
The initial part is spot on.
It is a horrid sensation which lives off its victim’s gloom and exposure. Amen to that. I don’t know how I know this to be true. I’m not the kind to stow away in a murky corner, burying myself from the loathsomeness of the world around me. In fact, I’m probably the furthest thing from that distressing depiction.
But the rest of the definition is erroneous. Every last letter and dot over the “I”. It’s a claptrap piece of gobbledygook. It does not label me. No characterization in the world could define my individuality, my state of mind.
I’m a flawed, adolescent, green to the bone shadow that staggers among 7 billion other silhouettes tinted on a canvas by a colossal blistering orb that permits us to exist. Full stop.
The palms of my hands are blotched with lines of perception and existence. I am a descendant of Adam and Eve, of prior homo sapiens, of the phantoms all-round me. I am a spawn of the sun, a cracking fire in the middle of a cold night.
I am a half-full glass of chilly, fresh milk that leaves a prickling sensation in your esophagus as you glug it down. Coma.
I grasp the concept of destruction, warfare and affliction. But I also comprehend exhilaration, grief and anguish and the warmth of adoration and devotion.
I have a highly developed brain capable of abstract reasoning, language, introspection and problem solving.
And yes…I am on familiar terms with loneliness.
But, beloved Internet, I am not competent of being recapped by twenty one words. Neither are my emotions.

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