Alone

Have you ever been alone? I mean truly alone. It’s there that one finds oneself. It’s there that the truth rises like bile in the throat – the reality of the animal reaching only for itself. We’ve never been there, to the horizon. It’s not a place, but it’s easy to believe in the direction.

It’s the others, painting in subtle tones with the casual glance and the slight smile – the dance is for them and gyrates one step beyond the pride that denies it. Self-isolation doesn’t work. The very ridiculousness of the idea reminds me of a bearded youth from another life, long hair tickling his chin, visage set, focused, pinched with pained introspection. “The entire summer alone – I need to meditate, I need to think”. Oh how he would announce it, how he would position those both close and far to watch and wait on the edge of our seat to see what bit of wisdom our beloved would emerge with… as we conducted his isolation from outside his walls.

Even were it real, escape from all musicians would seem a foolish wish for any instrument, especially one badly tuned and never played. But what about the occasional fool?

The escape comes from pain – the flight from the deep and well-deserved humiliation of exposure conducted over and over again. When the feeling starts swirling the liver and the lungs into a tightly wrung wad, which rises slowly and gaseously to the head, the running starts. Knowledge of transparency doesn’t stop it. Resonance between impassioned exposure and reflexive isolation achieves neither privacy nor trust. For one spark of life, “alone” approaches closer than ever before, bringing the animal at last to the forced narcissism of the detached. Can I live for those who stay away when I push?

To love from the safety of the shadows seemed noble enough to a youth who would use the twist as an excuse for her cowardice. Some cycles build momentum until they become permanent crutches.

The deprivation creates ridiculous despairs. Gone are the haughty damnations of vanity when once the sheer torture of inadequacy brings the most dignified to their knees to beg in vain for the beauty they believe they cannot emulate.

Through the grind and twist, on the other side of the looking glass, Alice may see a spark – it’s the later and stronger reason to push away, to isolate, to groan. The spark is at times more sought than glances, than laughter, than friendship. It’s powerful enough to make delightful that silly and ineffective ache that comes to announce its imminence. The addiction of it inspires gratitude to the beloved who allow us to retreat into it again and again – we owe much to those would fail to begrudge us our delusion as they wait with open arms outside our walls.

And it creates the paradox of the dupe: I want nothing of you until I’ve learned not to want you.