Sometimes, the best cure for loneliness is to actually be alone. Which is actually kind of hard to do, considering there are something like 6 bills people on the planet. You have to actually try.

Alone is different from lonely. Alone is a choice. Lonely is a sickness. My sickness has lasted two years, six months, eleven days, and I'm to the point where I must get better, or die. So I put on my black "fuck off" jacket, and put my headphones in my ears, and I made a choice to be alone. And I walked. I walked all the way to the edge of town, out of town, up the hill, to the little bench at the crest of the hill, left by those who were alone before me, and I sat on it, and I looked over the city.

I looked, and the tears ran down my face, cleansing and painful, as I accepted the loss. There was no more "us" or "we". Maybe there never was.

The tears ran down my face, and with the memories and the sorrow, and as the sun was setting, I left them there, to evaporated. I left the "we" I forgot the"us" I abandoned the "happily ever after" and started to write a new story. A story of "me", a story of "I".

And then I hiked back down to the city, surrounded by people. And I re breed their names, and they knew mine. And I was greeted like I had been gone for years. I had been gone for years. For two years, six months and eleven days. But I am