The self finds itself languishing in a room in one of those human buildings. A room full of empty noises: the clink of a glass, a burst of manufactured laughter, the drone of a story about a terrible commute, and such and such. Just humdrum conversations like paper boats, floating on the surface, terrified of the depths.
Someone approaches. Their name is… something I was told a while back. They smile, a perfect practiced curve drawn on their face. "How's it going?" they ask; a question that requires no real answer. And then it starts: the mental fracas.
The self splits into two. One half, the diplomat, smiles back. It finds the expected response and the mouth utters it. It performs the dance, the careful two-step of pleasantries that mean nothing and cost everything. But the other half, the true half, starts screaming. It rattles the bars of my ribs, struggling to escape; be anywhere but there. This isn't connection; it is a transaction. The treasure of my attention, my finite energies spent (wasted!) on pleasantries.
The soul's deep hunger for substance forces a physical ache when fed with chatter. My hunger brings me to the room, but the offering keeps me starving! Each hollow question, each predictable anecdote, drains the hopes for a real conversation, should one ever miraculously appear. I can feel it now, the slow depletion. The tired diplomat feels the weight of the courteous smile on the lips.
My gaze drifts past the others to the window, and to the promise of quiet outside. A bit far away out there is the alternative: the silence of my own apartment. The hum of the refrigerator, the weight of a book in my hands, the company of my own thoughts, which (while scary and terrible) are at least honest. Solitude isn't a punishment. It's a sanctuary. It is the clean, vast, empty field where something real and meaningful might one day have the space to grow. The room full of people starts feeling like a garden choked with weeds.
They're still talking - something about God knows what. I nod, I laugh, but I’ve already left. My mind is out the window, flying to freedom, turning the key. The snap of the latch is the most beautiful sound I can imagine. It’s decided. A few more minutes of pantomime, a polite excuse, and then, escape. I will go back to the quiet, back to myself.
In that quiet, the hunger for connection will not vanish. But it clarifies. This hunger will not be fulfilled by half-loaves. My solitude is preferable to any and all false company on offer. Give me meaning, give me truth, or nothing at all! I want to know what keeps you awake at night, not where you bought your shoes. I want to see the flicker of a real, unguarded thought in your eyes, not the practised veil of politeness. I am not afraid of your depths; I am terrified of your shallows. Let's meet with the messy, complicated and beautiful truth of who we are, or let's not meet at all.