Loneliness is a Three Act Play

BY NIRVIKA DHANASRI

Before a lonely night comes a period of possibility. A moment to ponder the likelihood of your life changing. You wonder what it would take to stop feeling alone, how much effort exactly, and how many people you need in your life. The thought is so exhausting you give up as soon as you begin. Like grief, loneliness can be split into phases, but you prefer acts. It’s all a show to you, a performance, even when no one is around.

IN

Act

I, you are at your most decisive. You decide you don’t have anyone. Therefore you decide you don’t need anyone. You decided you were okay like this. Not just okay, solid, with sure durability only you can maintain. You decide that time is what you make of it, and because you’re alone, only you can decide what to do with it. You decide you are powerful for this. Without an audience, you are free, unwatched, and completely understood.

IN

Act

II, you are at your most indulgent and creative. However, your creativity only expands beyond the same few things, but each is the same comfortable sweet every time. The first thing that comes to mind is a cup of tea, preferably herbal, sweetened to sickness, coupled with a good book or movie. Next, you dance. You dance because you have realized that nobody is watching and nobody will, and you can move your body however you please. It is around the third sip of tea and fifth jerk of your hip when you finally say to yourself, “this is nice.” Realizing you are alone is difficult to admit, but embracing it fills you with a certain superiority because, at this moment, you think you are the only one who can enjoy yourself like this. You praise yourself for your independence and shove the craving for dependency so far away from your brain that it lands on your heart. Because dependence turns a solid woman into liquid, it makes her unable to take form without something else, someone else. You might even write, but that is rare because it is hard to think straight in this “You’re happy you’re alone” state since writing would require you to acknowledge the thoughts that say otherwise. The next hour or two is this: sipping, reading, watching, dancing, and ignoring. And thus, Act II is over, and the only prop left on stage is your bed. No more books, music, or sticky teacups left— only you.

IN

ACT III,

you are most grounded and philosophical. You have done everything you wanted and everything you could. Your muscles ache, and all that dancing made you more uncomfortably sweaty than free. All that is left to do is lay down in bed and think. You don’t know why you think so much, and perhaps, you are making up for the conversation you missed by not being around anyone. So your brain decides to form its dialogue. First, it creates fake conversations you would have with people you already know, like the cute boy in Biology or your sexy coworker. Now you can say the things you wished you’d say. And they say exactly what you want to hear right back to you. If life were a play, just like loneliness, Act III is where you dwell over the technical mistakes you made in the 9th grade, your senior year, and two months ago in college. You also start thinking about the books you haven’t read, the experiences you haven’t had, and the people you miss. It is in this act you are reminded how terrible this all is. How unbearable these lonely nights are. Because what is a tea party without fruitful conversation? And what is a dance party without the heat of other bodies? Now you are liquid, melting into the crevices of your mattress, unable to hold form without the strength of your imagination. Tomorrow you wake up alone again in the mess you’ve made. Aching for an audience.