Home | Theland E. Thomas

And then he goes home, but all the houses look the same, and he’s not sure if he’s arrived at the right one even when he settles into bed. He looks out the window at the leaves swaying in the gentle breeze, and he thinks maybe I should go out, I’ve been trapped inside all day, but then he wonders what he would even do out there, and he’s pretty tired anyway, so he rests his back against the wall. He’s gotta find something to do in the time between now and sleep, so he turns on the TV and flips through a few channels, and then he turns off the TV and tosses the remote away. Then he sits with his hands in his lap for a few seconds. Then he scrolls through a few contacts on his phone thinking there must be someone he can talk to or text, but there isn’t anyone, and that’s when the loneliness begins to set in. All of his friends have gone away and left him alone, and he decides this is not a healthy train of thought, so he goes for a walk to lift his spirits.

It’s too bright, so he wears sunglasses, and it’s too quiet, so he listens to music, and it’s too chilly so he wears a jacket and the sidewalk is lined with trees. He noticed a long time ago that the natural design of this neighborhood is just designed to look natural, and the trees are plotted precisely, and the path winds around and around in one big circle, the perfect length to get your mind off of things. But the music he plays is sad, and it stirs resigned loneliness - a kind of lamenting, languishing loneliness whose pressure compounds and breadth expands with each passing day. A kind that seeks no resolution, only perpetuation. He follows the path left and right, and when he comes home he doesn’t feel better, so he sits down and thinks there must be someone I can talk to, but no one will really understand what he’s saying, they’ll just impose their own reality on his or trivialize him with well worn wishes because they don’t know what to say or it’s the only thing they can say, and he doesn’t really understand what he’s saying or how to say it anyway, so it just remains undeveloped and festering.

He opens up an anonymous app on his phone and thinks about posting something, but no one cares that teen angst doesn’t end in your teens and anonymity is meaningless, and sometimes you’re anonymous even when they know your name. So, he sits thinking about choices, steps, missed opportunities, and missteps, and the girl he should have dated and the girl he shouldn’t have dated, and the girl who’s already dating someone else, and how everything ended with him here alone watching the light outside die again. And then he thinks, these choices don’t matter and maybe nothing matters, but then why does it all matter so damn much? And then he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes to hold back the wave of feelings, and it works, but it leaves him feeling empty and suffocated.

The light is gone, and he curls into bed, and closes his eyes, but the darkness doesn’t bring sleep, instead it brings the void, so he opens his eyes, but it’s just as black out here, so he closes his eyes again. And he’s so lonely, he thinks he might pray, but God doesn’t hear him, and if he does, he’s not saying anything back, so he stops and stares toward the wall. At night, the other side of the world is awake while he lays still in bed. Night creatures and party animals creep and frolic while he lays still in bed. His phone restarts while he lays still in bed. And he doesn’t end up sleeping, and before the sun rises, he showers and gets dressed and goes to work and pretends to be alive for other people, and they don’t care, and he doesn’t care, and he just thinks about how many hours left until he gets to leave, and then he smiles and waves goodbye, and then he goes home.