Loneliness has been romanticized, hypothesized, criticized, and realized time and again, for years and years, and still it exists as it never has before.
It is an isolating condition we all, I believe, have experienced at one (or many) points in our lives.
A Minister of Loneliness has been appointed in the United Kingdom to address social isolation across all age groups. Loneliness has been aligned with so many mental illnesses that it may itself be one of the most widely-spread mental ailments of all time.
Being lonely is depressing; in fact, it can be both the cause and result of depression.
We don’t really talk about it.
It takes a certain strength to speak about loneliness, and you don’t have that strength if you are lonely.
Loneliness is easy; you can do it all by yourself.
But you don’t need to be alone to be lonely. You can easily feel alone in a city full of strangers, or with a small group of friends, anywhere, or any time.
I have been lonely, in different stages, at different times in my life. It feels lonely just to write it down, but you cannot address a personal issue unless you are prepared to admit to it.
Loneliness is a state of mind, a sign of the times, and can be one of the greatest conundrums. Not always emptiness, loneliness can be the result, or the cause, of anxiety. Loneliness can take you deep inside your mind, or your mind can lead you to loneliness.
Fear of being alone can only make you lonelier, the effects felt from the brain through the body.
It is confusing.
In a world where there are more people than ever; at a time when communication is more accessible, (if not instant), the state of loneliness has never been more present. Still, loneliness is one of those topics many people will not speak about.
Overcoming loneliness cannot be as simple as simply saying ‘find a friend’, or ‘talk about it’, but it can be a start.
Let’s talk.
Let’s see.
Know when the feeling isn’t right, and begin there.

©2017 j.g. lewis

Only the lonely
Know the way I feel tonight
Only the lonely
Know this feelin’ ain’t right
                                  -Roy Orbison

tonight no dreams
last night the same
then clouds flat
pressed against the
sky allowing nothing
to pass through
except rain

tonight no rain
no dreams no clouds
even stars are silent
there is rain
somewhere surely
perhaps dreams as well
or promises

no light not tonight
the moon in its
darkness only gestures
no promises no dreams
only intentions only
a new moon can offer
new beginnings
@2014 j.g. lewis

Left brain. Right brain. A delicate balance.
A left-handed Gemini; no stranger to controversy, but
I can’t take sides. I dart back and forth regularly between
a practical reality, where I must live,
and the fractured imagination where
I want to be. And I, a dreamer, know this. We all dream,
of course we do; there you find other people, and you.
Déjà vu.
We’ve been here before.
Pyjamas in bed, most of the time. Insomnia.
You question the whys.
Never settling for the answers, there is always another way.
Another sleep (when else would we dream), another day.
Imagination can soothe.
Practicality will confuse.
My imagination is as practical as my every day is creative.
This is my choice, my voice, and where I choose to live.
I’ve been here before.
I will come back often.

“An idea is salvation by imagination.”
-Frank Lloyd Wright

Don’t look for me amidst words I write
between the lines or in the night. My handwriting
always rough at best, the journal is a daily test
not to myself, as much as time.
The pages stained, the thoughts are mine.
Coffee spills or drops of rain, tears
in certain places, among streaks of blood
(paper cuts) are both things I’ve done, and
things I must.
Personal. Private, page after page, book into
book, rarely do I take a second look.
I can, when I choose. I write. Memories now,
or they will be soon, a thought du jour,
there is always room between newspaper clippings
and obituaries, postage stamps and all the necessaries;
the weather, the cities, the price of gas, a few jokes
and then, a certain laugh. I never know what
I will discover, as I fill the space
between the covers.
Inspiration from a tea bag tag, a picture from a
product tag, instructions to a game, a recipe or two,
the phone number of someone I once knew.
Stories of redemption, or reflection, coupons
never redeemed, wishes and promises not once
what they seemed.
Directions to a house I’ll never visit again. Excuses
or reasons I never explain. An expired lottery ticket,
a book mark now, I always wonder the when
and the how.
Concert tickets, and transit passes, accounts of
dreams now only ashes. A label from a bottle
of premium champagne, reminders I’m reminded of,
again and again.
Let’s face it, we don’t always remember, and in years
we never will. You can write them down and still
the history in the making, of interest to myself.
Only once a kiss and tell.
The journal is, essentially, a travelogue: inner thoughts,
outward concerns as I evolve. The pencil continues
to scratch, the words keep running. It’s not
who I have become, but what I am becoming.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Sixteen times per minute,
twenty-two thousand breaths
in a day. No time
like the present.
There are no other excuses, but
there are always other ways.
Breathe. Choose today
to speak up when you can,
push out the latent sorrow,
guilt, and anguish
only you can understand.
Inhale. There is no life, no
oxygen, like this day. Despite
our selected perceptions,
there is not a
single breath to waste.

©2018 j.g. lewis