The loneliness I once believed to be irrefutably overwhelming has proved to be bearable. I have become, as before, ever-doting companion to myself. On the bad days it is the physicality of it all that sidetracks me, the upset stomach, rapidly beating heart, difficulty breathing... I often wake up with a sort of solid tear building right under my eyes, tearing at the flesh, eager to drip drop all over everything. Crying is thoroughly annoying.
It has dawned on me that solitude has allowed me, through a desperate and constant narration and often documentation of my actions, to recover a certain sense, though fleeting, of meaningfulness. Perhaps more like purposefulness accompanied by an outstanding awareness, I am aware of smaller, less important things, I am aware of moments. Purposefulness is also annoying.
I walked in the rain today, I have always said I like walking in the rain, I say a lot of things about myself, things I probably can't assert with certainty. A woman walked past me and I saw her face and remembered I'd once fallen in love with her, more than a decade ago, I would've called out to her, except I knew she couldn't see me on account of the gray saturated shit filled smog filled Sunday sky and I couldn't for the life of me , remember her name.

I could’ve bought some pills to help me sleep, but I just stood there in the pharmacy staring at a wide array of feminine hygiene products.

Just another, new, stupid lonely Sunday. It's been awhile.