Threadbare

 by Adena M’lynn

In moments when the world turns its coldest shoulder, when the fabric of connection seems threadbare, I find myself adrift in a sea of disconnection, engulfed in a loneliness feeling like a heavy weight upon my chest. The light of hope, that elusive spark, seems to dim and flickering out, leaving me in shadows that stretch endlessly, swallowing every echo of warmth and companionship.

I walk through these days disoriented in a dense fog, where every step feels uncertain, and the path ahead is obscured. The isolation isn't just around me; it seeps within, creating a chasm that appears too vast to bridge. In these moments, when despair whispers with a voice too convincing, the notion of a brighter tomorrow feels like a myth, a story told to comfort those who haven't seen what I've seen, felt what I've felt.

The world, in its vastness, paradoxically seems to shrink to the confines of my own solitude, a universe contracting until it's just me, alone with my thoughts, my fears, my silent hopes that have lost their voice. The echoes of laughter, the warmth of embraces, the simple yet profound act of being truly seen by another, all feel like relics of a bygone era, artifacts of a time before the cold set in.

In this space, hope doesn’t present itself as a beacon, nor does it offer the promise of immediate rescue. It’s more a concept than a reality, a word that has lost its meaning amid the overwhelming presence of despair. I wander through memories, through the what-ifs and the if-onlys, searching for a sign, a guide back to a place where hope lives, yet finding only more questions, and more shadows.

I know, somewhere beyond this, the world continues its dance, indifferent to my pain. Stories of resilience and rebirth are being written without me, tales of connection and warmth that seem as though they belong to another universe entirely. I’m here, though, in this moment, this thought of disconnection, holding onto the fragments of memories that seem to slip through my fingers, a ghost of what once was, or perhaps, what could have been.

This is not a journey marked by milestones or illuminated by the light of clear vision; the end will come soon enough. Each night is a testament to my  existence in the shadows and a reminder of the depth of my pain as I yearn for a connection. As always, I venture alone.