I always went fast in life. I read stories to my teachers in kindergarten. I read stories to my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my parents, my grandparents, the barber I went to, the clerk we always went to at the grocery store, the Chinese ladies who would take me into the kitchen and show me off to all the people in the back at China Garden, my dog, but never the children in my class. To everyone in my world but my peers I was important for being alone. To the classmates, when I was alone I was simply alone. And I was beaten for it. I was made to help teach the others. And I was beaten. I learned in first grade that being alone wasn’t as joyous as I had been told by all those people it was. Being alone was cold. Being alone was beatings. Being alone was hate.

I found joy in being alone in third grade. I left my peers, and found them again. The faces changed. In addition to such, I also found someone who I deemed worthy not to call my peer. Someone I trusted enough not to be associated with. I found someone I could read to. I slowed down. I grew to hate being alone. Eventually being alone meant hate, and cold, and beatings, but they all changed hands. They were all my own, delivered upon my peers.

Eventually I lost all the people I didn’t associate with. All I was left with were peers. Being alone reclaimed its place as a refuge. I read while alone, I played alone, I thought alone, and it was oh so very warm.

I’ve been alone for the past 5 years and 4 months. My meanings changed again. Drastically. I found no solace in solitude. I found no hole in my books to dive into. I found emotion I neither cared nor asked for. I sped up. I took heed of my early days. Of my previous beatings. Of my prior hate. I shelled myself. I was as strong as could be in these days, I could hold up a mountain. I could part my mental sea with the breath from my mammoth lungs, and consume all the fears that swam in it like so many tiny fish. My fears were so dull then. Then I found out that it wasn’t strength I found. It was separation. Seclusion. Absence. Hate. Autonomy. I learned I didn’t want any of this. I learned joy. Hunger. Tears. Hope. Disdain. Love. And then she died. She died because I thought I was strong. She died because I enjoyed being alone. And now she’s rotten away.

I maintained my shell. I was one fine fucking turtle. But I found pain in being alone again. Then I came here. I found people I liked enough not to associate with. I made a list of everyone in the forum, and next to each name I wrote what I remembered most vividly about you all. It went on for 6 pages. I think you were right sphinxy. I love all of you, in a way that you’ll never understand. In a way that I simply can’t express. I wrote this 7 times in the past 20 minutes. I think I did it best this time. You people are a staging point. You people I can read to. You people I trust enough not to call you peers.

Now you’re all alone too. You’re separated from everyone else in the world. You know things very few people do. You know more than my parents. You are truly alone now.

Does it feel warm?