September 24, 2014

American solitude

I use to enjoy being alone. The amount of trust I put in the consistency of solitude is incredible when you consider that statistics of American marriage as opposed to the great unstudied virtues of American solitude. Were I without you, I would be the same as I am with you, just with more shares and stock options. Were you without me, I am certain your sun would rise each morning as it would set each night whether you were there to see it or not.

There's no rush and it doesn't ask much of your time; you give it up so easily anyway. The only haste I've been able to experience is a retroactive one that laments the speed of time and my inability to catch its coattails, if only to delay it for a couple breaths. It's not time's fault. I was busy doing other things, wasn't I?

Time spent alone is time spent selfishly, so I have been led to believe. There's nothing to be learned from solitude but self-preservation, a looming misanthropy, and rattling perception of intent. You teach yourself the misinterpretation of others, the segregation of heart and mind, of right and round, of you and me. There is no moment I spend alone that I do not wonder what would happen if that moment never ended. If purgatory was the meat barring me from an eventual ending involving you and others. Maybe I am only meant to lead to me. Maybe you came along for the ride because you couldn't see that either.

The knowledge of your impermanence and transgression turns my solitude from a quiet lake to a rip tide, sweeping me out from beneath my own feet. Drowning in it isn't ideal, like such few good things-- to have too much of it serves only to turn against you. It's a strange thing to at one point find comfort in it and at another point catch fever to a poison.
Solitude was my vaccine for loneliness. You can't really tell if you're lonely until you are alone-- you are only able to suspect it in the company of others. The best way to find out is to try and stand it as long as you can.

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