Loneliness is a dangerous feeling. And when it coincides with the realisation that time is running away from you at a constant speed, loneliness becomes even more misleading. It evokes fear, anxiety; so much fear which gradually shows in every word you speak and every glance you make. This fear constantly reminds you that you've got very little time left, and you should make every effort to grab hold of whatever you can grab hold of; love or perhaps convince yourself to love whoever you can find, so as to have another half to call yours.

The heart's been broken numerous times and bad experiences lay silent, piled up across your bedroom floor. Loneliness eats you inside out, erroding your sanity. Substituted by a wild and desperate insanity, producing visions and illusions of a possible love experience with extreme and unrealistic lovers: a middle aged man finds himself fantasizing about young, adventurous and daring young girls, filling his life with hope and freshness so new there's no need for dew; an egotistical man dreams of submissive women who won't think twice and won't question life, characterized by a vulnerable and weak nature for him to hold and mould; a rich and high-fashion-wrapped woman with a perfect bow on her head, glowing with just enough sex appeal to attract the young men of much ambition and sex drive. To hold on to life and youth; to hold on to a vigour and a spirit that has diminished since baby heartbreaks; to hold on to something albeit superficial, so as to fill the hollowness which we face when time has finally taken its toll on us.

Because when we're lonely we just want anyone, really. We dial the numbers of those lost in the distant cracks of our memory, when in sane moments, these would merely be specks of the past with personalities no longer memorable. A thin line exists between a loneliness-empowered illusion and an independent reality: when you're lonely, you need him; when you're not, you don't. So do you?

Desperation, loneliness and age make a somewhat self-destructive combination. After nights out with alcohol running wild in your veins making you ponder about that which you shouldn't ponder about, you sit by your bed wishing you had something more, something amazingly romantic and romantically amazing which you haven't yet achieved through countless nights of studying and reading. I don't want to feel this. Because once gaining sanity, you never want to lose it again; and anyway, Romance is somewhat beyond my reach.