Lonely Sunday Breakfast Thoughts

Just another lonely soul measuring moments on an arc and fall between birth and death.

More moments of poignant melancholy loneliness over Sunday morning breakfast; alone with a nice hot coffee, my withered notebook and some reflective words and thoughts. Of course, we’re never really alone. There is always that internal narrative of monologue and observation that accompanies us as a silent partner and confidante, as friend and – often enough – as hollow adversary of doubt and uncertainty.

I find myself drawn along by the music I hear in this small place and even though none of it is anything I would ever choose to hear had I the choice, it draws me in and gently soothes through its naivety and innocence. Reflecting upon the ways that these commercial soundtracks seduce and induce a certain narcosis and soothing, hypnotic effect – I wonder if this is precisely what my loneliness is or has indeed become. Just another dream-like and drifting narrative disengagement as a fugitive from – and mask over – the serial sorrows of life, just another lonely soul measuring moments and slowly fading away into the exile and warm embrace of an unremembered and uncaring oblivion.

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