Wings in the Wrong Garden

Witty Banter

Today’s topic is something I’ve been carrying for years, a shadow that keeps pace with me no matter how brightly the lights shine. Loneliness. Not the kind that happens when you’re physically by yourself that’s easy to see, easy to name. I’m talking about the quieter, more insidious kind. The one that follows you into crowded rooms, clings to your shoulders in the middle of conversations, and sits in your chest even when someone is standing right next to you. The kind that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life. Maybe most of you reading might think that I am just gonna rant about me being lonely but deep between the lines maybe you might realise that a pose a question that will question the fundamental of being alone and feeling alone.

The Noise that doesn't reach You

I’ve learned that being surrounded by people doesn’t guarantee you’ll feel connected. I’ve been at parties where the music is loud enough to rattle the floor, where the surrounding is full of chatter, where people lean in close to tell you secrets or jokes and yet, in the middle of it all, I feel as if I’m watching the scene from behind a glass wall. I can see everything, the laughter, the gestures, the warmth in people’s eyes but it’s like the sound is on mute for me. The noise is there, but it never really reaches me.

Socialising is supposed to be energising, a way to recharge your spirit through shared stories and collective joy. But for me, it often feels like slow erosion. Every smile, every polite nod, every carefully timed laugh chips away at me until I’m hollow by the end of the night. People mistake my silence for shyness, or my withdrawal for disinterest, but it’s not that. It’s that I’ve poured so much of myself into the performance of connection that there’s nothing left in the glass to give.

The Weight in the Room

There is a specific kind of heaviness that comes from feeling lonely while surrounded by company. Being alone in solitude is one thing, it’s honest, and sometimes it can even be peaceful. You know where you stand. But loneliness in a crowd feels like a quiet betrayal. It’s proof that connection is about more than just physical presence. You can stand shoulder to shoulder with someone and still feel a thousand miles away if your hearts aren’t moving to the same rhythm. You have this sense of betrayal and mistrust from the people whom you trying to have a small talk with. 

I’ve stood in rooms where my body is here but my mind is somewhere else entirely somewhere quieter, somewhere slower, somewhere less performative. I watch the conversations flow like rivers, but I’m stuck on the bank, unable to step in without feeling the current drag me under. And the worst part? No one notices. People see your smile and assume you’re fine. They hear your voice and think you’re part of the moment. But inside, you know you’re not truly there.

The Myth of the Social Butterfly

People often assume the most social are the least lonely. It’s a comforting illusion for them, not for us. I’ve played that role, the person who moves between groups with ease, who laughs in the right places, who can weave themselves into almost any conversation. But the truth is, sometimes I’m just a moth disguised as a butterfly, drawn to the light, pretending to belong there, always hovering but never landing.

It’s exhausting to keep your wings in motion when what you really want is to rest. It’s tiring to keep giving when you’re secretly running on empty. And perhaps the hardest truth is this: the crowd isn’t the problem. The problem is that they’re not your crowd. There’s a rare kind of person who doesn’t drain you, who makes the air lighter instead of heavier. The ones who don’t need you to explain your silences. The ones who understand the meaning behind “I’m fine” before you even say it. Those people are rare. But they’re worth waiting for.

Learning to Sit with it

I used to treat loneliness like a sickness, something I needed to cure, something shameful I had to hide. But lately, I’ve started to think of it differently. Loneliness is a signal. It’s the part of you that refuses to settle for noise when what you crave is music. It’s the quiet insistence that your soul is meant for something deeper than polite laughter and surface-level exchanges. It’s uncomfortable, yes but it’s also a compass, pointing toward the connections that will matter when they arrive.

And so, I don’t run from it anymore. I let it sit beside me. I let it speak, even when I don’t like what it says. I remind myself that the right people the ones who make you feel seen without you having to perform are still out there. And when they come, you’ll know. You’ll feel the air change. You’ll feel yourself breathe differently. Until then, I hold my space. I keep living. I keep my seat at the table, even if I don’t speak much, because I believe one day the conversation will turn in my direction, and I’ll finally have something worth saying.

If you’ve ever felt alone in a room full of people, know this: you’re not invisible, you’re just waiting for the ones who see in the same colours as you.

Until then —
Smile when you can,
rest when you must,
and save some of yourself for the day you no longer have to pretend.

                                                                    

A small poem I wrote some time ago- 

Everyone talks about growth as if it’s a train ride.

As if we’re all headed somewhere,

Success, love, freedom, healing,
Just hop on, stay the course, and eventually, you’ll arrive.

But I’ve been at the station far too long.

At first, it felt like a pause.
A breath.
A time to gather myself.
To wave goodbye as friends boarded their trains

new cities, new lovers, new lives.
I clapped, I smiled, I said, “Go. I’m so happy for you.”
And I meant it.

But now the station’s grown quieter.
The announcements echo off empty walls.
Even the pigeons seem restless, 

as if they too are waiting for something that won’t come.

I’ve tried.
Tried to fix my mind like it’s a machine,
tried to stay “strong” like it’s a performance.
Tried to hold myself together
but no one tells you how heavy that gets.

Because “keeping it together” is not healing.
It’s survival.
And I’m tired of surviving.
Tired of pretending the silence is peace
when it’s just loneliness in disguise.

Maybe I’m not on pause.
Maybe I’m just scared.
Maybe there was a train and I missed it.
Or maybe there never was one for me to begin with.

Everyone’s moving on.
And I’m still here.
Still stuck.
Still clenching my fists, trying not to fall apart.
But maybe falling apart is the only way through.

I don’t have a neat ending.
I don’t have answers.
Just this,
If you’re at the station too I see you.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re not as alone as we think.