The only constant

My grim march towards the inevitable has rejection becoming more than a mere occurrence; it's my shadow, a relentless companion that trails me into the depths of middle age—a period I once naively thought would be softened by companionship, perhaps even love. But instead, it's defined by the harsh, unforgiving light of reality, where every attempt at connection is met with disdain or the cold, cutting laughter that serves as a cruel reminder of my place in the world.

The truth, once spoken, seems to only ever conclude in two ways: a patronizing pity that's almost as unbearable as outright dismissal, or a reaction so cold, so brutally indifferent, that it freezes whatever warmth is left in my heart. I've come to expect it, this cycle of hope followed by despair, as if I'm doomed to repeat the same mistakes dressed in new disguises. Maybe it's a cosmic joke, or perhaps, a punishment for sins I'm sure I've committed.

I find myself wondering, in those quiet, solitary moments that fill my days, if I'm fundamentally flawed. Perhaps I was a monster in another life, or maybe I'm just an idiot in this one. Sure, I've ticked boxes off some arbitrary list of achievements, milestones that society tells me should equate to happiness. But the one thing, the only thing I've ever truly desired—a connection that transcends the mundane, a companion to weather the storms with—remains perpetually out of reach.

The laughter in my face, the rejection, it's all become a part of me now, a bitter pill I swallow daily. It's a reminder of what I cannot have, what I will not have. As I drift further into the abyss, I've stopped asking why. The universe doesn't owe me answers, and I'm tired of questioning.

This is my reality, a narrative devoid of a happy ending, a story that meanders without purpose or direction. I've come to accept my solitude, not as a choice, but as a sentence I'm doomed to serve. In this acceptance, there's no liberation, only resignation—a recognition of the inevitable.

As I scribble these words, a testament to a life lived on the fringes, I do so not in search of sympathy or understanding, but as a declaration of my existence, however pitiful it may be. There's no grand revelation, no moment of redemption waiting in the wings. There's just me, my thoughts, and the crushing weight of loneliness that accompanies the realization that some of us are simply meant to walk alone.

In this, my story, there's no hidden moral, no light at the end of the tunnel—just the dim glow of a reality I've come to inhabit, a world where the laughter of rejection is the only constant, and the hope for something more is but a cruel mirage on the horizon of a life that's destined to fade into obscurity.