You fought so hard to love yourself and found that love in other people. And then your self-love became intertwined with company; a give and take, you gave love and in doing so fell in love with yourself. Slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. It was uphill for the most part, but a rocky terrain nonetheless, and sometimes you found yourself on your hands and knees in a pothole, clawing at ever-loosening rock until your hands found a tough vine, and you pulled yourself out. And then you kept going that uphill route. You found yourself in company again and that same ecstatic happiness hit you like a cool breeze against heat-chapped lips (self-love feels like morning dew).
Occasionally, you find yourself alone. It’s usually okay. But too long and the ground starts melting away into quicksand and if you don’t move fast enough, you’ll be submerged and suffocated and all you’ll have is thoughts in your head saying Remember how easy it is to hate yourself and claw at your skin and revel in the self-loathing? Isn’t that comfortable? Familiar?
Until one day, neck-deep in quicksand, you decide, “Actually, it’s hard to hate myself. Also, screw you.”
Taureans are stubborn shits and the smug set of your lips is liberating. So after that great proverbial middle finger, you instead take the loneliness as an invitation to dance, dance hard with your sore hips and sing loud from your throbbing throat. Before you know it the company descends once more and your laughter scares away the creeping toxicity, and the warmth of the hugs you demand from those you love turns your blood brilliant scarlet instead of rust. You thaw.
Look, what I’m telling you with all these metaphors is that all loneliness is temporary. And you’re not truly lonely unless you resign yourself to it.
And need I remind you that you resign yourself to nothing save for the inevitability of the light at the end of a particularly dark, dank tunnel. So take heart. Bon courage. Take pleasure in your own company, make the love come from yourself instead of constantly outsourcing it.
You’ve come this far – why not jump over the potholes instead? And even if you don’t make the jump, the vines always sprout and hold true when you grasp them in your hands and tug until you’re free. Terraform. Bend the terrain. You’ve done it before. So do it again.
Take pride in the tenacity your bloodline afforded you; there is no dishonor in being alone. Not anymore.