The World That Was Not

She used to be the centre of attention. And she loved it.
The yesteryears had been tough on her. Living in a shell, she was almost used to herself being alone. She would relish moments away from people, from the noise-mongers, from those who chose to trade their inner voice for a thousand phony ones that would always pamper and stroke their faulty ego. She was proud. Not being one of the attention seekers was something she prized. They called her a loon, a social-recluse! But she did not care. A place, a world of her own she did create. And a million copies of herself, each carrying a single thought of hers! A creative wonderland! They called her lonely! But she denied that. This was not loneliness, it was SOLITUDE!
She WAS the centre of attention, and LOVED it!
Yet life was tough on her. She never really understood why. Why was it, that at times she felt this pang in her stomach? an occasional feeling of emptiness? Even though she drifted into her world, her thoughts would only manifest themselves into dark, hollow eyed, nothings! She hated these phases. Tears would seem to push their way through the corner of her eye, and overpower her vain attempts to hold them back! They would run freestyle, cheering along the depressing outline of her face. Tears, rolling happily down, doing somersaults along the edges of her lips, frowning.
Where were HER prized friends now? She hated them, this instant! There arose a conflict in her head. Amongst the emptiness that previously filled that space, this conflict grew on her. Whom was she fighting here? Was it the dark side of the world she was so fond of? or was it her? She had no answer. And the emptiness that was ruling over her also offered no clues.
This was her. a few years ago. This was her, in her last life.
Things had changed now. She had long broken up with Recluse, apart from many a boy, since then. She was NOW, exactly what she hated THEN. And still she felt no pangs. They loved her. She loved being loved. She got used to her new life. With people around at all times, it was like living her dream. A dream that had risen from the ashes of another that suffered a painful death, long ago. Her inner voice, trampled by the volume of the millions that now flooded her previously dogged head! She knew her mistake. She knew she was wrong before. Wrong about loneliness, wrong about solitude!
Then one day it happened! Déjà-vu. This time these were not alien territories, she knew this place. It was one she had created and destroyed long ago! Her favourite haunt now haunted her. This time her friends came for her. This time they offered her solace, offered her happy thoughts. And it lit up the dark world she was irked of! But now a new conflict took roots in her head. She was in a brighter world alright, but she was in crutches. She could not walk in this world by herself. If support eluded her, she fell back into the deep chasm of nothingness. She had become dependent! Overly dependent on others to live her life. Despite the world brimming with happiness, this thought spread like the light in her head.
Autophobia, Eremophobia, Monophobia, all meant nothing to her. Yet they all defined her. The fear of loneliness is one that has no definitive and permanent cure. This fear is often compounded by the natural desire to connect with others and then finding that this natural desire is denied by circumstances that are often outside the control of the phobic personality.
As she sat with herself, she looked within. Retrospection, a guiding light. She looked back at her past life, and her present one. Then it dawned upon her, that loneliness is not a factor that is in her hands to control. It is just like the blue moon, sounding like a myth, but existing all the same. It was a phase, it would pass. She could hold it back temporarily, by indulging in activities, but it would only come back stronger after a while.
This is not the end of the story. There is no end to it. It is something that never dies. Loneliness attaches itself with people at its will. It is in our hands to turn this into solitude, that is willing loneliness… In the words of Pablo Neruda:

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves
with death.