“One never reaches home,’ she said. ‘But where paths that have an affinity for each other intersect, the whole world looks like home, for a time.”
– Hermann Hesse, Demian
I used to believe that loneliness is like any other feeling, it can be cured. Once it’s disappeared, leaves no traces of its existence, fades away as if never happened. But loneliness is like pain and love, leaves its mark on the heart. In the case of love, it is sweet and warm. In the case of pain it’s dark and slaughterous. But loneliness leaves behind a cold claw, the absence of something unknown, the hard feeling that you’re and always will be only you, the heartbreaking separation of the rest of the beings… loneliness mauls a part of your heart, the one who needs the warm of someone else, and teaches it to live with the cold, prepares the heart for an endless winter. But nothing lasts forever in this world, even the winter, although it seems that never will come to an end. Loneliness will go away some day, but not its traces, the cold and empty corners it left in the corridors of your soul. A cold wind will still blowing there, preventing the warmth to get into your heart completely. You’ll try over and over to erase those marks with desperate hugs, without really knowing what you’re looking for in the other person, reaching his hand groping and squeezing it, a vague caress that you don’t know how to give because you didn’t even dream that the day to give it will come. And all those gestures will be so artificial, so fake, like if them weren’t yours, alienated, because your heart spent years frozen by loneliness, which still lurks, squat, waiting, like a nightmare that leaves a bad feeling when wake up. Then, when you’ve come back and are walking alone through the city, people passing by your side, you realize that, after all, the world hadn’t changed that much, although for a while it seemed like your home.