Africa · Ghana · Prose


He’s lonely. Its a deep-seated loneliness that he can feel deep inside his being. Its like a hole in his heart that he can’t fill; not with food, not with work, not with books and poems and stories. So he covers it up instead, hides it from the world with laughter and studies and an air of nonchalance that takes every fiber of his being to maintain. And it works, most of the time. He expends so much energy at this, that at night when he falls on his bed, he’s too tired to think, to feel, to contemplate that gaping hole in him that keeps widening up. He just falls asleep and forgets it all and then he wakes up the next day, ready to start all over again, determined to outrun those demons of his.
But once in a while, like now, when he’s stuck in a dark room with nothing to do, and nowhere to go, and noone to talk to, he can see those demons of his staring him in the face. And slowly, surely, they surround him, suffocating him, till he can barely take another breathe and in that moment, the hole is him and he’s the hole and he can fight no more.
Later, much later, as he drifts into much needed sleep, he knows he’s going to feel deeply guilty about his sticky fingers, wet boxer shots and soiled bedclothes the next day. Right now though, all he can think of is how good being consumed by loneliness can really feel.


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