Loneliness

“Do you know why the moon is so lonely?”
“Why?”
“Because she used to have a lover. His name was Kuekuatsu and they lived in the spirit world together. And every night, they would wander the skies together. But, one of the other spirits was jealous. Trickster wanted the Moon for himself. So he told Kuekuatsu that the Moon had asked for flowers; he told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses. But Kuekuatsu didn’t know that once you leave the spirit world, you can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the Moon and howls her name. But… he can never touch her again.”
— X-Men Origins: Wolverine

Shrouded with Uncertainty

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Time had been going by slowly, maybe slower than it had ever gone. Given her odd anticipation for finding out how things were going to unfold for her, that was not so pleasant. She’d been brooding over her future for days now, and while that obviously wasn’t enough time for things to properly shape up, she could not wait any longer. She couldn’t possibly assess her ability of going on alone in such a short period of time. She was notoriously impatient, a trait that didn’t exactly do her much help most of the time. Like most things, she knew it would take time, but she refused to admit it. Even so, she knew she could not keep herself composed enough for things to happen on their own.

While she did want to test out her theory, she often questioned her choice. Did she really want to isolate herself to find out if that would improve her performance? Was she ready for that? Her loneliness was already killing her; she could only imagine what it would be like to force herself further into this lonesome bubble.

During that time she had also had another task to fulfill and that was preparing herself for a new, unfamiliar way of life. Graduating high school, she wanted to step into college as someone else, someone better; more mature, more patient, and more capable of relying on herself. Her school friends were going to be busy adjusting to their new lives, too, and they’d have less time to help her deal with her problems — not that she frequently turned to them for such help. She’d preferred keeping her problems to herself, but sometimes she needed to hear advice come from someone else’s mouth.

She did however, spill herself out to him. He wasn’t a school friend, but that wasn’t the only thing that set him apart. He knew exactly what to say and how to say it; it was as if he had been there the whole time lurking in the parts of her mind she never wanted exposed. Those were the parts she often denied were there, and he took those out and lay them flat ahead on the table for her to stare at and acknowledge.

He too was a paradox; he was capable of giving out explicit description as to what was wrong and why, but he answered her questions vaguely. She liked mystery but hated having to deal with it herself. In that sense he presented a challenge for her, tossing around clues for her to assemble in order to uncover his intentions. It drove her insane, but the outcomes were worth it.

Following out her plan, however, would mean having to walk away from the challenge; it meant no more self analyses and declared advice. She’d have to do that on her own, but she knew she couldn’t. She never had it in her to be that person despite wanting to so badly. She’d always wanted to experience the satisfaction of knowing she’d helped pull someone out of distress and frustration. Then again, maybe this was her chance; she could go on with her plan, isolate herself and put herself to test, try to extract the compassion she had buried deep inside and use it to aid others. It sounded a bit selfish to her; she wasn’t quite sure if she could handle doing such a thing. The idea seemed to fall on both perspectives; on one hand it was a noble task aiming to help those around her, on the other it was a mere attempt to satisfy her ego by gaining satisfaction from helping others. Which one was it really? Was it kind of both? That she had no answer for, but she wasn’t willing to take the risk.

Outspoken

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She was a lonely soul; so used to being alone that she learned to do it in a room filled with people who meant nothing to her and probably never will, but despite her solitude being overwhelmingly exhausting at times, it brought upon a kind of assurance; the assurance that she was alone enough to spare herself another disappointment.

The past few years had been quite eventful; not in the sense that it was in any way interesting or longed-for, but rather in the sense that she’d experienced frustration in too many ways in a relatively short period of time. She’d seen a lot of what people can be and how they can always manage to find ways to prove to her that one should never expect too much out of them, but she was stubborn, the way she always had been as a child. Now legally an adult, she still childishly refuses even the most seemingly simple things when she doesn’t want them, and she refused to take that as a fact. Still she hoped that her newfound friends would not let her down even though in her heart she was preparing for that final blow. And yet she trusted no one, not even herself, and had solid evidence that she never can. What a paradox she was…

There was, however, something that she did believe, and that was that everything happened for a reason with no hint of coincidence. She taught herself that even the toughest of experiences that supposedly knocked her out were there to teach her how to get up next time. She also believed that there are people assigned to make these kinds of experiences happen; those she’d met a lot with. There are also the people assigned to remind her of the former; those were hard to find, but she’d found one not more than two years ago, and so far he’s been performing his task marvelously.

He was like water; essential to survival yet potentially fatal, especially to those who never learned how to swim. He changed with the circumstances. Solid when times got tough to stand with those who needed him, like a lake in arctic temperature serving as reliable ground for people to tread. Deceptive when things called for it to show people just how much they took him for granted, like the mirage of a pond in a stifling hot desert. And smooth when that was what he needed to be to provide peace to the troubled, like the waters of a stream flowing across the mountain for drained hikers to rest in. Everything she needed, he could be, but she was sure never to abuse that lest she consumes the last drop too soon, although she knew he was an ever-flowing river, and he’d always find a way to feed himself when he began to dry out.

She couldn’t swim, so she had a fear of being too close to him. Whenever she felt too heavy she pulled away, but she couldn’t stay away for too long. Eventually she’d come back; she needed him more than she knew, but she never quite knew how much he needed her. What was she to him? He liked sunsets; he drew power and inspiration from them, and often he turned them to surreal works of art. He had an eye for beauty. She often wonders if she was ever the object of one of his art projects, if he could take her subtleness and turn it into something special. Heck, she knew he could, but did he want to?

That was second to the fact that she already owed him too much. She never could pay him back. She could only try to. He hated that; it sounded almost repulsive to him, or at least that’s how he made it sound. Nevertheless, she’d made it an obligation. Somehow she’d find a way. That’s what she kept telling herself. As hard a task as it was, she did not see herself giving up. She refused to let his intolerance for gratitude get in her way. “I will thank you if I please,” she’d say, “and I do please, so thank you” then she’d try to brush off whatever he said to shut her up. She’d gotten used to it by now, given the countless number of times she had to thank him for pulling her out of whatever internal struggle she was having.

There were a few things that she could never get the hang of; one of them was de-stressing herself. Her overactive mind did little to help, taking everything and thinking it through excessively. She often tried to visualize herself all on her own, and naturally ‘the habit’ would kick in. A thousand scenarios into it, she’d be ready to admit it was a bad idea, but that never really took the thought away. Which scenario was the most probable, she had no way of telling. It could be anything, maybe something different from everything she’d pondered. Maybe better, maybe worse. Was she ready? Would it be better for her, perhaps a way to boost her self confidence and teach her that she is all she’ll ever need to make her way out in life? Right now it was a blur; the answer seemed to be lost in that grey spot between certainty and utter dismay. All she had to do was wait for the fog to clear up so she can read it out loud.