The Beauty of Being Alone

I’ve been having visions of dying alone when I’m old, but not in the normal, sad story way.  It’s a liberating image, passing away in my sleep with no fuss, no muss, no family spatting over how to take care of me, or fighting over who gets my stuff, or making me feel guilty for having the nerve to die and leave them.

After years of disappointments, failed relationships, and seeing more of the bad side of people than not, the idea of being completely alone with myself has more appeal than I ever expected.  I’ve put my all into too many relationships, until I no longer have enough for myself.  It’s fucking exhausting.  Of course, they always start mutual, such that I even thrive under the support and encouragement of another.  But it always, always changes. And somehow, in the end, I’m left as the only one still giving to the relationship, always getting taken for granted.

I’ve tried each time to not become bitter, to not carry the pain of past relationships into a new one.  But fuck it.  I’m embracing bitter, wearing my pain as my armor.  I know I can always rely on me.  I relish the beauty of being alone.

 

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