It’s a cold and crisp Saturday night, my iPod is on shuffle playing “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver, and moments ago I decided I would write about loneliness…a fairly misunderstood word and notion. What do you imagine when you think of the word? A man/woman sitting alone somewhere dreadful, wearing a desperate, defeated look. But is it always so? I believe that nowadays we are constantly and never alone, in that we are always surrounded by people (at work, when we go out, even at home) but always alone in our heads. And the mind is a truly lonely place to dwell in.
But loneliness is also relative in many ways. I am alone now, in the literal sense, but not in life. For me the loneliest time of day is those few moments when you lie in bed, in the dark, right before you go to sleep. The second you close your eyes, patiently waiting for Morpheus to appear and sweep you off your earthly woes (or does he?), a cinematic journey begins. Your brain presses the “slideshow” button and you begin to see before you scenes lived hours before, and hear conversations being repeated and highlighted accordingly. Problems become colorful and worries appear magnified. The dark envelops your fragile and tired state of being and you spend these final seconds of consciousness being devoured by your own never-tiring mind.
I think we fear this kind of loneliness as much as we fear the possibility of being alone (hence the constant need to always be occupied with something, whether that is TV, video games, chats, reading, chores, etc). Obviously some people avoid this tête à tête deliberately, but how can you ever run away from what is inside you? Denial is probably your best friend at that point, but a fickle one it is. But I should be getting to my point, which is that loneliness (in any of its manifestations) is ultimately and undoubtedly inescapable, inevitable, but not unforgiving.
I realize that I may be generalizing waaaay too much, and not considering several aspects and paradoxes of this notion, but my intention is not to write a dissertation on the subject; I simply wish to jot down random thoughts and fleeting reflections.
I sit here waiting for something, and a million other things. Each and every one of them seem significant and utterly trivial at the same time. But if everything is so relevant, how do we make sense of anything?