This year, I promised myself that I would be happy on Valentine's Day, despite being alone. I promised myself that I was okay not having a valentine, that I wouldn't spend all day moping and having a pity party. (Something I'm exceptionally good at.) I took myself on a date; I spent all afternoon at Starbucks, reading, writing in my journal. And I was happy, pleasant, content.
And then a weird smell inside Starbucks drove me away. So I came home.
And now. . .
I'm at home. Sitting on my bed, in my exceedingly messy room, watching Bones on TV. The weird smell sticking in my nose, my stomach going between hunger pains and nausea, and and the black hole in my heart getting bigger by the minute.
Anyone who's ever been inclined to depression, pessimism, or chronic loneliness knows the feeling; The black hole that starts out microscopic, started by that tiny feeling that's merely vague discontent.
Then it sucks into it every good feeling or optimistic thought into it, growing in size, and breeding only more discontent, unhappiness, loneliness.
And there's nothing you or anyone else can do to make it go away. At best, you sleep for a while, and when you wake up, you feel like new.
And this is how I feel right now. Sad, lonely, aching inside.