Lonely

What is WolfCast?

Literary performance, essays, and spoken-word confessions from an author known only as Woolfinius Jackson Whürl. A voice from the Dust Meridian, reading the pages he never meant to send.

I have never been afraid of being alone. By myself.
In fact, there is a real power in spending time in the absence of others.

The quiet.
The thinking.

Time stops when there is no expectation or planned event waiting ahead. Being solo is akin to a social isolation tank: freeing and awakening in certain ways.

So when I say lonely, I do not mean it in the general sense of:
“I wish I had people around me. Any people.”

I mean that I miss one person in particular.

A person whose thoughts and words are more than eager banter and coy smiles shared so freely.

A person who helps shift me from lost to centered. When my attention slips, she helps me turn my gaze forward again, reminding me that we are both marching toward some grand goal.

Something distant...

though we cannot measure how far,
we somehow sense the destination is close.

Just around the bend.

Surely, this time, we land.

Her absence feels like a cruelty.
A loss.
Loneliness in the sense of incomplete.

And so I, a starving man, crawl and scrimp at the edge of the table of her presence, fixating on every crumb that slips unnoticed to the floor.

We are describing two souls that seem impossibly calibrated for one another.

A special case.

For weeks I have spoken of ghosts,
doorways,
weather,
breathing,
God.

But desire is sometimes much simpler than language.

If she were here,
I would pull her against me
until all this lonely holiness
finally broke apart into sound.