ELIM CHIVOLUDARS MEMOIRS – SOLITUDE

Does it ever sink in your gut, cold and unrelenting, when you're sure you're right, but every sign points to you being wrong?

It's not just a feeling; it's a slow, gnawing unease, like the faint creak of wood beneath your feet, warning of an unseen collapse. And yet, you push forward despite the bitter taste of doubt on your tongue. The air around you feels heavy and damp, almost suffocating, as if every step is a struggle to move through invisible quicksand. Those who stand in your way don't even realize they're blocking you. They mistakenly believe they're doing you a favor by offering advice like scraps to a starving bird.

But I know better.

I've known this feeling for as long as I can remember. It whispers in the quiet moments, a companion as familiar as my shadow. Still, here I am, trudging onward. My legs ache as though weighed down by iron chains. The ground beneath me shifts and slips like wet gravel, offering no stability. There's no sturdy railing to grab when I stumble, and stumble I do - repeatedly. Each fall sends a sharp and unforgiving pain shooting through me. I'm no cat, gracefully springing back up. I land hard, bruises blossoming on my skin like dark, bitter flowers, scars carving maps of past failures into my flesh.

It's tough.

There's no guarantee I won't fall again. Blind faith keeps me moving; - faith in something I can't even name. Trust that there's strength left to rise somewhere deep within this battered body. My dreams, burning bright and vivid, wait to be fulfilled. But the days feel shorter, the hours slipping away like water through cupped hands. Time doesn't stop; it doesn't even slow. It marches on, dragging me forward whether I'm ready or not.

When I look at the people around me, I see reflections of lives and roads I might've taken. Their laughter echoes, warm and complete, starkly contrasting with the hollow silence surrounding me. I'm not jealous of their successes - honestly, I'm not - but their joy makes my emptiness unbearable.

I write books no one reads but me. My fingers, calloused from hours of typing, glide over the keyboard, chasing stories that might never be realized. I feed on others' achievements, celebrating their victories while neglecting my desires. The sting of self-inflicted punishment lingers like the bitter aroma of burnt coffee, which is acrid and difficult to ignore.

What kind of world denies you the chance to chase your dreams?

It's a world where success feels as elusive as the stars shimmering beyond your reach. I don't expect to be famous or brilliant. I just want the opportunity to run, soar, and even fail.

I should feel content.

After all, I'm no longer the guy on stage every week, pasting on a crooked smile and cracking jokes to mask the mess inside. I've straightened my teeth, polished my appearance, and tucked away the jagged edges.

To the world, I'm a success story. But the mirror doesn't lie. The reflection staring back at me feels unfamiliar, like a stranger wearing my face. I touch the glass, searching for anything - but all I think is the cold, smooth surface beneath my fingertips.

People assume I'm content now, that life smoothed itself out like a perfectly pressed shirt. They don't ask how I feel. They don't hear the silence pressing against my chest like a leaden weight when alone. And I can't shake the thought that I was happier before I was "normal." Back then, I knew who truly cared about me. 

Now, I don't know anymore.

Friends have faded, their voices growing quieter until they're nothing more than whispers in my memory. Others remain, but their presence feels distant, like watching a movie through a fogged-up window. It's like I paid for my new smile with the connection price.

The truth is, I feel trapped in this body. It's like wearing a suit of armor - firm on the outside, but the weight crushes me inside. My soul flutters like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. I can still sing; I can still create. But I'll never fly, never feel the wind rushing past me or the sun warming my wings.

Time is passing more swiftly with each breath.

Despite my best efforts, I can't ignore one thing: seventeen years. That's how long it's been since I saw my sister. Watching movies or shows about siblings pierces me like a slow knife. Every scene twists the bonds they share, the laughter and love, like a dagger against my chest.

I tell myself I'm strong, resilient, and hardened by years of pain. But deep down, I ache for warmth. For love.

Can a person survive alone?

The stale air of my apartment whispers, No. The bare and unyielding walls feel closer every day, hemming me in. When people ask about my family, I tell them I have none. It's easier than explaining the void.

I dream of starting my own family someday, but I fear I'll fail. How can I give love I've never known? I've grown used to the silence, the solitude, and it terrifies me. 

I've stopped minding it.

I've withdrawn from people and from life. The laughter of the crowds at my comedy gigs feels like background noise now, distant and muffled. My world has shrunk to the glow of my computer screen, the clack of my keyboard, and the faint hum of my thoughts.

Am I hiding?

Maybe. But I don't know how to stop.

Ten years ago, I felt alive - reckless but alive. Now, life feels muted, like colors dulled by dust.

There's one thing I can admit, even if it's only here in writing: I miss my family. Time hasn't healed the wounds; it's only deepened them. I didn't think I'd still be mourning, but here I am.

Sometimes, I wish I could feel nothing. I aspire to embody the tranquility of a stone poised above the crashing waves. The sun might shine, the waves might crash, but none of it would leave a mark.

But I'm not a stone. I'm a droplet atop a wave - fleeting, fragile, and beautiful in my brief moment before I vanish.

And maybe that's enough. For now, perhaps that's enough.