Author S. K. Nicholas

When the moment takes me, I walk the streets late at night when no one else is around. It’s a kind of perfection, as the empty souls are all asleep and for a while, I’m free. But I guess I’m just an empty soul too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wandering about when I should be at home in bed. I like loneliness, though. Being lonely is my birthright, it’s in my blood. Those around me cling to others; they feed off social interaction. To them, being alone is boring. It serves no purpose. But to me, I feel peaceful when I’m alone. The only child syndrome perhaps, who knows. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the company of others. Being sociable can be enjoyable, it can bring wonderful memories and a certain texture to life, but most of the time it’s just a chore. Ever since I was young, solitude has been a dream of mine. To be the lone survivor in a post-apocalyptic future, or to be in solitary confinement. These outcomes have always intrigued me. I’ve always felt different from everyone else somehow. There’s nothing extraordinary about me, I’m just a regular guy, but the desperate longing to escape has always been there. Maybe it’s self-obsession. Maybe being the only child has made me too precious of my own existence. There’s a certain romance about loneliness too, a misunderstood beauty. To refuse the well-trodden path that others take. To trust your gut, to stand up and say, no. It’ll leave you broken, just like it has for others, but the beauty of its truth is a wondrous thing. To be real. To immerse yourself in all of your failures; to embrace the waste. Success is boring. Everyone wants to be successful. So why not rebel and adore the wreckage of what your are? But when I say I want to be alone, it’s not exactly true. Despite my love of isolation, every so often someone comes into my life that destroys the mantra I hold dear. They bring pain, and they cause distress, but every time I come into contact with them, I walk away believing that such a thing as love really exists. What a dirty, cheap word, though. Anyone can say it, and they do. Everyone, every day. Always banging on about fucking love. But when it’s real, when it attacks your heart, it strips away everything and leaves you bare. The worst fear of a misanthropist. But when you close your eyes and see the smile of the one you adore, there’s nothing you can do but surrender yourself. I write to find answers, but it gives me nothing but questions. Maybe that’s why I write in such an obscure manner, cause I’m afraid of the endless puzzle that seems to present itself whenever I open up. To talk in tongues, to try and cheat somehow. There’s no cheating it, though. The only way is through.