...too quiet. Scary quiet.
Though I have finally removed the visible signs of Hobbes's 18-year tenancy with me -- his cat carrier, in which he sometimes liked to sleep, went to a cat-owning friend today -- I can't be here for five minutes without being reminded that he is gone. I still jump at small, cat-like noises, still look around expecting him to walk in the door....
Almost as bad is the knowledge that I was already lonely when he was here, and am utterly alone now. I feel a detachment when I am around people, as if we are living in different dimensions. Their existence -- particularly in the case of couples, or parents with children -- is foreign to me.
I come home from such outings and try to entertain myself. It doesn't work very well.
It's not that I want it to be this way. I am a social animal, one who does infinitely better with companionship.
I miss people. Certain people, that is. No point in naming them; they are not here, and I wouldn't want to embarrass any one of them who might somehow end up reading this by letting them know how much they are missed.
On the other hand, I don't mind embarrassing me. God knows I've done it a million times.
So let us just say that I am lonely as hell, and all attempts to alleviate the feeling have failed miserably.
And so I mourn. Mourn the loss of my feline buddy, and am sad because those I miss most should have had a chance to meet him or, in one case, had spent more time with him. And me, of course.
1 hour ago