I'm no recluse. Loneliness kills me, eating away at my soul bit by bit, until I reach the worst sort of despair I have ever felt, as bad as that which used to plague me when I was haunted by thoughts of love gone wrong.
After I recovered, I never wanted to feel that misery again. It was frightening, how a simple sensation of tingling palms could make me shed what seemed like buckets of tears. I couldn't breathe, with my face under pillows, fists stuffed into my mouth. There is nothing worse than letting it out while trying to supress it.

It went on for what seemed like eternity, the silent weeping, and howling when no one could hear me, as if I was going through some intense physical pain. And I couldn't make anyone understand, because I did not want to talk about it. I've learnt that when you give out your secrets to people, they rarely sympathise, though it seems they do. They laugh at you, and feel sorry for you, but there is no sympathy, nor empathy. We're all rather callous that way. It was suffering, by choice, but I couldn't exactly turn around and leave because love doesn't allow for that. So I gave, as much as I could. Then one day I couldn't give anymore. I stopped, and eventually the tears stopped too.

I had things to do, to keep me occupied, and I was close to what I felt was happiness.

But now, after so long at home, my sleep cycle has gone all wrong. I stay up all night, doing nothing, talking to no one. I read without concentration, surf channels, drink endless cups of tea, try to sneak a smoke or two, shower, anything really. To keep my mind off the silence. I hate it. I feel useless, and unhappy. Unhappy enough to feel my palms tingle, to want to kill myself. And the only thing I've learnt from all of this is: Love, lack or loss of it, is not the only thing that induces tingly palms.

I give it a name: Boredom, to simplify it for anyone who I might decide to talk to about it, but it's actually much more than that. I wish it would stop. I'd give anything for a night away with people who I can laugh with and talk to.
Just about anything.

I dread it when the clock strikes twelve, because the night stretches on endlessly, longer than the day.