Last weekend my town had a Columbus Day festival, which culminated in a fireworks celebration Sunday night. I happened to get a good view of the fireworks from my apartment, so I watched for a few minutes… by myself of course. I could hear the faint sound of the cheers of delight in the distance by the spectators. I could have gone to the festival myself, but I’ve been in this town for a long time, and in that time I’ve made very few friends, while the rest were people I’d just as soon not see again if I could help it. I suspected some of those people were at the festival too. Ironically enough, the very first time they started the Columbus festival, I was a freshman in high school and played in the marching band for the Columbus Day parade. My love for the town’s fair (and for the town itself) has since waned over the years.

As I watched the fireworks, all I could think about was that I was watching it alone. I was a single rocket, firing off into a lonely sky. And yet, I used to love fireworks, especially as an adolescent. Today, it brings me nothing but pain. The pain of knowing I have spent so many years going to festivals, watching fireworks, hitting the movie theaters, visiting parks and beaches, and yet, doing it all alone, unable to share those experiences with that special someone.

So I couldn’t enjoy it anymore. Instead of taking in the dazzling display, my mind wandered to all those people at the festival, many of who no doubt were holding hands and playing suck face while the rockets soared. I burned with envy and hatred as hot as the fireworks that were currently going off, which soon gave way to a deep despair. There may have been a time when I enjoyed being single, but I realized that time has now come and gone, and now all I’m left with is a sense of melancholy that precludes me from being able to enjoy any of life’s recreations. In short, I’ve stopped living. I can’t go out and enjoy life anymore, because I know I have to do it alone. I’m tired of having to say “table for one” every time I have dinner somewhere, or take in a movie and be unable to discuss it afterwards. I was tired of going on vacation and doing romantic things such as taking a steamboat cruise, or walking down the beach, and yet having to do it all without “her.”

In years past, the despair I would feel at being alone was usually buffered with a sense of hope that soon, someday soon, my suffering would at long last come to an end, and I would finally meet the woman of my dreams. But as one year gave way to another, my hope began to wither and die. It’s no wonder I exhibit so little effort to take care of myself. The loss of hope has given me a loss of will to carry on. It’s like a slow way to commit suicide. I won’t do it outright, so by letting my health deteriorate, this is a round about way for me to accomplish the same goal. The world succeeded in crushing my spirit, and it seems I’ll never be able to recover from the devastation.

All that is left is to hope for either a miracle, or a death that will come sooner, rather than later.