"Forty years ago, the Beatles asked..."

"Forty years ago, the Beatles asked the world a simple question: they wanted to know where all the lonely people came from."

(Fiction/Non-fiction, Bullshit/Poetic ramblings: your take.) 

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Where do lonely people come from? My latest theory is that they don't come from anywhere. They become lonely. Because of circumstances.

Unknown

1. You're walking alone and you have your music on, you're listening to Portishead because it's sexy and melancholic. Your green parka is way too big for you and the wind is blowing way too harsh on you, so you put your hand in your pockets; they form a fist. You're walking quite slowly because, well, it's a sunny day and you don't get many of these here. Your hair is in a ponytail and is hidden beneath a black beanie hat that covers everything but your eyes. You suddenly realize you look like a homeless person, the thought makes you laugh.You decide to go sit on a bench in a park and read the book you always carry in your bag: it's the latest Murakami. You read until the character gets into the other world, you feel serene and calm because that's what beauty does to you. You decide to go home for coffee. On your way back, you bump into a puppy, he's jumping around you, yelping, and licking your new shoes. You want to pet him but his master walks away with him. You want a dog. A cat. An animal. A fish. A book. Lies, you want someone. But you don't. You don't even have a fish.

2. You're in a club. You're moving your body to some underground new-age electronic music and you're feeling the beat- really feeling it. After ten minutes you look around and you don't recognize any faces, you see guys and girls sweating, people making out, people waiting for the drugs to kick in… You need fresh air , you don't feel anything in here apart from the pulse in your veins and somehow it is not enough. You go outside for a cigarette, you ask this cute guy in black for a lighter. He gives you one. You like black. And lighters. And people who give you lighters. You light your cigarette, take a puff and for a nanosecond all you can see is black. You hand him back the lighter and in the process, your fingers brush his hand. Suddenly you see his hands: they are long, and bony, and not nice at all. They are veiny, white, and the fingers move too fast, the way they wrap around that tiny lighter is too much for you. You long for those fingers. They could paint you. But they don't. You say thank you and you go smoke under that small roof because it's starting to rain. And hard, by the looks of it.

Côteau-du-Lac Explosion

3. Your eyes open. You're in a bed. It's not yours. This one is smaller and colder. You don't recognize anything. All you see is white and pasteurized green. Everything is blurry. You can't breathe properly, the atmosphere is heavy and your chest feels dry- like an autumn leaf. You try to move your hands, you try to say something, but you can't, your words and your vision are too hazy. You realize that underneath your white robe, you are naked, and cold. And heavy. You don't know what's going on, but you do know you don't like it. Where are you? What happened? You don't remember anything, except the heavy weight on your chest and the darkness that followed. You wait. You want to cry and to scream but nothing comes out. So you wait. How long has it been? Five minutes? An hour? At last, a woman comes to you and greets you with a smile. "You're in the recovery room" she says. Except it doesn't feel like it. You're cold and scared but she doesn't see it.

SASHA KURMAZ

4. You wake up in the middle of the night and you don't know who you are. You had a dream, a nightmare, or both, you don't remember. You don't even know your name . Your brain is still in its "asleep" phase, somehow your body managed to wake itself up.  You don't understand. You don't recognize your own room. It feels like you could be anyone, after all, you don't know who you are. Maybe you're a person who hates animals, maybe you're a painter… The hesitation only lasts seconds. The memories of your life rush back. Oh, you're this and this, not that. You go to the bathroom. You go back to bed, there is no one else in the room. You lie back down on your white pillow and your hand reaches under it. Nothing there. You roll around to the other side of the bed- it's empty. You wake up in the morning with no recollection of this. You don't even remember having that nightmare. Or waking up to go to the bathroom.