Loneliness is a strange dopamine

Dipanwita Dey

Loneliness is a strange dopamine.

Slowly, steadily, it consumes existence.

Under its spell, it traps, strangulates,

murders, and extinguishes.

The desperate try to defeat it,

unleashing the invisible chain

around the collarbones.

Feels like a gravitational force,

pushing into the darkness of the unseen.

Solitude devours the ultimate

version of yourself—

the despondency of never being discovered,

never being heard,

never feeling the warmth of a beloved's touch—

evaporates into the captivation.

Loneliness is a strange dopamine

that gradually erases felicity.

You let it consume, let it burn.

The desperation is robbed.

It feels dreamy, forever in slumber.

It doesn't differentiate,

manipulates the foul play with peace.

It paints hollowness with serenity,

makes silence your native tongue,

shadows your permanent companion,

darkens your inescapable attire.

You begin to forget

you were once alive—

how hope sounded,

how touch once anchored you

to the trembling reality

of being alive.

And so, you exist—

half-forgotten by your own soul,

where even the mirror sighs

at the ghost staring back.