Consolation of Solitude

It’s hard to be alone,

But it’s even harder to try to find a home.

Home is wherever my friend is.

Never finding a friend, I don’t care when the end is.

Or how.

Creator? If you’ve never listened before, will you listen to me now?

It’s easier to be alone.

‘Cause every time I think I’ve found a friend. A special, wonderful, heaven sent God-send.

It ends.

Every one I’ve ever known.

I’d rather wander forever, never find a home.

It’s easier to be alone.

I’ve made some rules for my heart.

It’s been broken again and still tearing apart. But it’s there for me.

So I’ll follow the rules and pretend that you might still care for me.

Never say “Hi,” never call someone’s phone.

Keep to yourself, don’t wave, just leave them alone.

Never let anyone do anything for you,

You already owe them.

You’re just giving them a chance to ignore you—don’t act like you know them.

You don’t.

You think you’re better off in torture than ignored?

Well the reason they hate you is that you torturously bored them.

I give up.

Every time I might have chosen not to be lonely, I flinched.

My shaking speech was pain enough to slow me, they lynched

Me.

I’ve already carved, marked the heading on my gravestone,

“I wanted to be happy, but it was easier to be alone.”

4:32 A.M. I picked up my alarm clock and stared at it. The light, although dim, hurt my eyes. I wished that I could drift back to sleep and forget, just for a few hours, the words that were pounding in my head. Alone. Lonely. Rejected.

I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I didn’t want to see anyone, but my visitor came in anyway. He looked like a child, about seven years old, but his eyes were not a child’s. His eyes were swollen, wrinkled and tired. I knew who he was. Solitude. I wondered why he was here. “Was it to suffer with me?” (7).

“H-h-h-i…” he stammered.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“I cry a lot,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Be sorry for yourself. I cry for you.”

“Why do you cry for me?”

“Because you don’t like me.”

I got out of my bed and knelt down to try to comfort him, but he ran into a corner of my room.

I wanted to say that I did like him, but I knew it wasn’t true. I hated him.

“You always ignore me. You’re always talking to someone. Why don’t you want to spend time with me?”

“I did spend time with you. All the time, when I was little. When I folded paper to make animals, drew pictures, and made little stick-men fight in animations. I spent almost all of my time with you. Then I grew afraid of you. Because you changed. You started to show me things I didn’t want to see. So I tried to escape you.”

“You hate me now!” He started to cry.

“Please don’t cry! I don’t hate you!” I looked around for a tissue to offer him.

“You can’t lie to me,” he sobbed. “I’m as old as man himself.” He looked away for a moment. “Adam.” He sighed. “‘How happy were men long ago, when they were content with nature’” (47).

“I’m sorry. I’m just afraid of you. I see what happens to other people when they welcome you. They stay in their houses and take care of many cats.”

He started to laugh a little. “Among other things, I guess,” he agreed.

I tried to hand him a tissue but he refused.

“Do you ever consider the fact that maybe these people you talk to when you’re escaping me don’t want to talk to you?”

“See what I mean?!” I lamented. “‘Do you need to ask such questions?’” (10).

He continued anyway. “Maybe they really want to spend time with me, and you’re keeping them from me.”

“Please stop!” I knew he was right. “This is why I hate you: you always tell me things I don’t want to hear!”

“Don’t you remember the fun we had together?” He stepped out of his corner of the room towards me. “We would fold paper for hours and hours, then build computers, then guitars. No one could stop us.”

“I wanted them to.” I felt horrible saying these words to him. “I really did. I didn’t want to be alone with you. I wanted someone to come and fold paper with me.”

“Why?” He started to cry again. “Why can’t you see how much we can do together?”

“Like what? What would I ever want to do with you instead of with someone else?”

“What about when we’re watching a sunset? Nobody ever wants to look at it for more than a second with you.” He wiped his eyes. “But I do. Some days we’d watch the evening sun together from when it first turns red to when it tucks itself snugly below the horizon, and the first stars come out. We used to walk through the woods together. You’d always look for animals.” He laughed again. “You always wished you could talk to them. Don’t you remember these times?”

“I do.” I wiped a tear from my own eye. “I loved those times.”

“Do you remember when we would wake up long before everyone else on camping trips and watch the mist drifting over the waters? Then we’d get a campfire started so that your friends would have warmth when they woke up.”

“You’re right. I’ve always liked doing those things with you.”

“You can’t do those things with anyone else.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” I held out my arms. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sadly, no. I can’t touch anything.” He dropped his head down. “Can we hang out sometimes, though?”

“That would be great.”

“Like we used to?”

“Yeah, just like we used to.”