One of the reasons why I generally avoid the company of others for the sake of productive relationships, or any relationship for that matter, is because I would have exhausted all possible links tying us together by the time they get accustomed to my company. I don’t just get to know them, I KNOW them and then nothing. I mean I know I should make an effort to empathize because I can empathize and I do, albeit superficially, but when it comes to seeing the human being they actually are, I get lost in an unusual trap.
That trap is the end result of the machinations of my own mind and I do not like to speak too highly of it lest I come across as an insufferable twat but I do appreciate my mind because it makes me happy. But it doesn’t give me any leeway when it comes to my social needs, or lack thereof. We’re loquacious and gregarious and we constantly seek the company of others but I do not because I revel in my own solitude, a solitude that stems from a mind working ceaselessly to make everything else seem unnecessary.
As a young woman, this is a dire realization and it should be for anyone regardless of their gender. I mean, a life told solely through soliloquies is no pleasure at all, let alone constituting a life even. Life should be grand and unpredictable with fluctuations that may occur either in the form of new relationships, dying ones, sudden changes and what not. Life should be seamless and effortless and all the words that come out of your mouth needn’t mean anything. But as long as this dichotomy persists, because of which the seamless occurs only in the realm of a rigid conformity, I cannot even pretend to care.
But I’m supposed to care and my apathy is too flagrant. It’s not so much that I cannot relate to the simpler things as it is that I find the beauty in the more evasive pleasures in life more fulfilling. I never wanted to fall in love because it didn’t appeal to me, but I did want to find more bands like King Gizzard and The Lizard Wizard because of my love for music. I never wanted to be a productive member of society with strong ethical beliefs and the likes, but I kind of enjoy reading Bukowski and I will. Just because my comfort zone is more cultivated than others’, doesn’t imply that I pursue these aspirations solely for the pizzazz. It’s just how I’m wired. Some people are meant to become serial killers and others, book readers with an affinity for psychedelic bands whose music pumps the life into your etiolated veins.
Solitude is misunderstood and I would think that’s because the loners have earned the reputation of being deranged maniacs behind all the famous killing sprees. But some loners-not all loners I must stress-are kind of just in love with life. This kind of love cannot be explained, it must be contemplated. For life is grander and bigger than just the earthly ties we might share with other beings, it’s not about popping a baby every year or so, it’s not about making love and achieving an orgasm that lasts a millisecond, it’s about living in a body and using it as a vessel for otherworldly enjoyments.
Basically this article is about how I enjoy solitude and why you should too and how not all loners are serial killers, although some might be so you better be careful around them.