I find people who seem like they might listen to both my silence and my tales, and though they seem petty and trivial and transient, they listen still. Yet at times like this, I wonder,
where have they gone to, those who once swore they'd stay.
Or at least that was how it seemed then. Perhaps it is best for me to learn and to get used to the comfort, though little, that my self can give to my self as I am constantly reminded by my circumstances.
Pilgrims shall always come my way, a pauper prince, a pilgrim, myself, and for a time, they'll share my hearth with me, and play audience to what tales I weave, and so, for a moment, solitude basks in the presence of company.
But it is a spell, and lasts only for a day, a week, or a season. In the end, they shall leave, as they often do, in my sleep, or when my back is turned, and flee under the cover of the dark moon.
In strange lands, there are no ghosts of friends to call, from both memory and the beyond. The rocks, the stars, the fire, they keep me company.
The fire neither dims, nor has its warmth diminished, but the chill seeps through my bones and into my marrows. Solitude is colder when it strikes unlooked for.
Is it really too hard to have someone to talk to?
The photo was snatched from this place.