Its not loneliness you see, its being with yourself. Its not about forgetting everything else around you, its about giving yourself a little more thought. For some, life is about trying to figure out what life is about, the joy of which is not the, perhaps inexistent, answer, but the journey itself.
Have you ever had a revisit of a very old but unique feeling, just the pure feeling. Sometimes even associated with something very simple, like a childhood fairy tale book. I remember this very unique feeling, this feeling of innocent fascination mixed with subtle dreamily vague recollection of blurry images or scenes maybe, this thick book of fairy tales and its old cover and stories from within it and mother, who probably read some of these stories to me. There is a television in a shelf stand. and underneath the television the shelf opens, and in it is the fairy tale book, and the room is dim... How young was I?
How we say things that we regret, how we do things that we come to regret, instead of cherishing those little moments of mysterious pleasure, simple yet profound in their own little ways.
In one way life is about appreciating the little gifts it brings us.

...However...

(cont'd from Pessimism)

there is the need for pessimism. for if there is no pessimism, there is no virtue in optimism, just as there is no reckoning of sweetness if there is no understanding of bitterness. if there is pessimism there is the battle to cross the frontiers of pessimism to enter into the realm of optimism. if there was one that came and kept coming throughout the continuity of time, saying what is it all about, then there would have been no motivation to move on forward...
it is indeed the lack of his coming that fuels the expedition from pessimism to optimism, for if he was ever present, then those states would have lost their relevence. so would have many other human emotions and feelings...
for those that harshness is a sad reality, pessimism is the worst enemy, and optimism is the only friend.
but there lies nothing new in these sayings, save another remembrance, another realization...
...strangely enough, in this repitition is his presence, in this remembrance is his proclamation of what it is all about...

Circle

He's tired of walking the circle. Sounds and colours that he tries so hard to distort into fragments of incoherent pitches and hues. His mind is in schism - should he be afraid of the wholeness of those that best remain fragmented and obscured? Or should he refuse to be afraid and concieve of them as a whole?

"Ignorance is like a two faced coin," he said to himself once. But he can't decide which side to look upon, for he had already taken a peek.

He walks around the circle coming back to the same unwanted spots over and over again; sometimes tired of anticipating the desired spots and passing them by. And he wishes hard to stumble upon the next circle, and for that one revolution, where all the shapes are new and all the colours and sounds are new. But the closest thing he can do to get to the other circles is to wish. So he wishes, sometimes as hard as he can, until it comes.

He wondered once, about how the best thing and the worst thing about going to another circle was the fact that you could never tell when it would happen, or what you could do to make it happen, or whether it would happen at all.

He mostly walked, sometimes tired and wishing, but mostly he walked.

...alley...

Threw it behind as he walked on, slowly blending into the darkness of the alley. He looked back once, despite the warnings: "those that look back can't leave it behind"...

He couldn't leave it. He got consumed as well. At times when he wonders why he looked back, he comes very close to believing in a destiny...

He looked up and asked. "It doesn't end does it?"

The voice says, "It wasn't meant to be made any easier than before was it?"

"He was looking for something." they said, "Couldn't find what he was looking for. You could never find what he was looking for, for what he was looking for couldn't be looked upon."

And he was lost to those voices again, wandering around, blindfolded, bouncing from one wall to the other, looking for space; and when the ground below gave in and the walls expanded endlessly, he tried grabbing desperately on to something that could be grabbed. And at those points maybe he felt how irrelevant it was to want or find. When existence escapes you by, do you wonder why you didn't want to exist?...

... he often wonders how nothing would make sense without existence, yet we are tired of making sense, some of us that try to, nevertheless... we wonder what is the point of these actions and mechanisms... why does one have to suffer (or not suffer, for that matter)... How luxurious non-existence seems when we are faced with the unanswerable "why"

Everything made sense to him when he walked halfway out of the dark alley. Maybe not sense, but a feeling of pleasure. And when they asked him what pleasure was, he vaguely remembered saying, "All those things that make you want to exist."

He forgot that feeling.

Once in a while he still gets close to throwing it behind and fade out of the dark alley. But till now, he had always looked back. He has also felt hatred towards those that want to exist. And that made him hate himself, for he never wanted to wish ill. "But this is how it is in the alley. You go around in circles," they say "and you want to cease to exist..."

They don't know why.

Some say ... "its because the alley robs you of some act that belongs to the other side of the darkness... something, failing to grasp which, he looks back every time..."