All my childhood, I loved being alone. My solitude made me think, about anything and everything under the sun. It made me happy and contented. I was never bored being by myself. Now, that same solitude makes me restless and sad. It brings back all the memories of my dad and in each such memory, I find something to be guilty about. I can no longer sit for hours thinking about nothing, and enjoy it. I need to be surrounded by people, so that I can push away the memories and the pain they bring with them. I can no longer write because I can no longer think.
Fleeting thoughts in snippets.