#537: On Solitude

I like it.
I really do.
I value the time I spend
alone to write, or read,
the light hiking, a bike ride,
and the solitary camping
weekend. I think I need
these moments, these
sustained chunks of time
for creativity, reflection,
for communing with the self,
a short, healthful respite
from the noise, the society
of family, friends, or work.
But recently
in the last few years
I have found myself
on several occasions,
like I do right now,
alone for an entire week
at a stretch. My wife and
my son are gone and
I am at home with the
dogs. It gets tedious.
Not that I bore myself,
that I don’t alway have
a half a dozen things
to do, a list of chores
or things I like that are
best done alone. And
there’s a freedom
to play the music loud
or to practice my drums
whenever I like. But if I am
not social, if I stay,
like I have this time,
mostly at home, moments
arise when things don’t
seem quite real, as if I do
not really exist in the way
that I do when people
are around, even momentarily.
I become one hand clapping.
Or the tree that falls in the forest
when no one is around.
It occurs to me that
I’m not real without others.
I don’t like these moments.
Morbidity creeps in, worry,
unwelcome thoughts about
stupid things like dying, illness,
the futility of most all of it,
how old I actually am,
why I am not successful
at this thing or that thing,
stuff I would much rather
forget, to tell the truth.
And yet, no, to forget is
to live in a cloud, and I don’t
want that, but these moments
of prolonged solitude don’t
prove to be clarifying, especially
if I am wasting time, which
I do a lot of when I am alone
for an entire week.
I am not or have not been
miserable. Rarely in my life
have I ever been miserable.
I am most of the time slanted
at a seriously cheerful pitch,
even as the solitude I often seek
becomes a bitch, prolonged
and more melancholic
than I would like.