There’s this thing about loneliness. It’s invisible. Unmeasurable. Therefore unbelievable, for those who refuse to hear and see the truth of the lonely soul in front of them. People think I have the perfect life. I dance, I walk around in party clothes all the time and look like I have fun all the time. They don’t see me in my room at night. Surrounded by my books, study books, English literature, classic philosophical novels. They are all here with me when the rest of them aren't. Regarding my ongoing philosophy blog, they say I’m lucky this is how my life is now. They even think I am lucky I am not sleeping often. That I can use those hours writing and studying.