The Bargain of Loneliness.

Whom amongst us could dare, even if momentarily, to ideate an existence plundered of the tepid warmth of our social companions? For most, the mere hint of a fracture in some anemic romance or theatrically cherished friendship is enough to unleash a whole artillery of catastrophic fantasies. It’s a shared reality that a delayed reply, a changed tone, or an evening spent alone are sufficient to summon the descent of an apocalypse. Without the slightest need for skepticism, we may conclude that it is precisely this paralyzing dread that keeps us docilely shackled to bonds that have long since eroded. And we must make the honest distinction that It is not so much blindness, but rather a frantic, almost devotional willingness to cling to partners who manipulate and wound beneath the sentimental costume of “love,” and to friends whom we have long ago transcended but still parade as evidence that we are not, in fact, alone. We baptize our cowardice with noble names, such as loyalty, commitment, maturity, all whilst quietly bartering away what little social sanity we possess. Better, we tell ourselves, to endure these fractured, festering attachments than risk wandering into that uncharted expanse of solitude which, in our imagination, can only be a howling wasteland.

Even when we gather the slightest glimmer of resolve and we dare to scrutinize the relationships siphoning away our willpower, we still find ourselves haunted by the sweetness of bygone days. In that introspection, we question what else is life but the amalgam of little moments. Like those twilight gatherings around a tranquil table, where heated banter over whose hand holds the most potent cards occasionally drowns out the distant chorus of car horns. Or the nights when the world’s frantic buzz recedes into a soft hum beneath the force of laughter so raucous it feels like it might unseat gravity itself. Then there are the years—two, three, a dozen—of unchecked merriment so adorable it seemed as if it might persist in defiance of time’s slow decay. Surely no sane mind would argue that these cherished memories have somehow lost their brilliance simply because, in the here and now, the once-priceless bond has withered into little more than a faint echo of what it used to be.

But, it is at that exact junction that we would do well to pause and offer silent tears for the days irretrievably lost to our memory’s haze. Time, that lone certainty shared by all of humanity, so often goes unexamined even as it sculpts the architecture of our lives. In truth, time itself is little more than a human contrivance, an abstract device we, fragile and endlessly reflective Homo sapiens, fashioned in our attempt to comprehend a universe untouched by such notions. Our dilemma is not with time per se, but with our paltry lifespan, a brief flicker seldom exceeding eighty orbits around the sun, after which we are consigned to the pages of history’s forgotten archives. 

Still, time, this concept of our own making, proceeds indifferently to our little emotions. It overlooks to remind us that the night we melted into the embrace of a cherished lover, or the adventure in some far-flung city where we squandered our last dollars on half-palatable dishes whilst laughing at our own absurdity, are mere moments in an already transitory existence. And like all ephemeral glimpses of beauty, these moments, too, will slip into oblivion, never to be resurrected.

And as we continue to cry, we should remember that it is a divine gift that we get to keep those memories, even if only for a little while. For our connections with loved ones, whether forged in friendship or in romance, are unyielding war zones, perpetually at risk of infidelity, betrayal, deceit, hypocrisy, the swift eddies of personal growth, and the relentless approach of death. In the rosiest vision we can conjure, the most exalted culmination of such a bond would be for both parties to perish in the same breath, never having outgrown one another or shattered each other’s hearts beyond repair. But since we both are aware that ideals are the stuff of legend, memories come to us as saviours.

It is in that acceptance that memories stand as our salvation. For even as we part ways from those we once clasped so tightly to our inner circle, the versions of them and the versions of us that once fit together like ionic bonds remain sealed in our consciousness. In the reality of memories, our compatibility was so striking, so achingly beautiful, that we fooled ourselves into believing it might endure unscathed. And though our partner or cherished friend may now be as distant as an echo from a past life, the precious fragments we keep of them remain steadfast in our minds, immune to nearly every force that would seek to strip them away. Well, until such a time where we lose those memories too, and by then, believe me, nothing will matter.

In this juncture, we must at once elect to supersede the chaos with tranquility and summon the fortitude to greet loneliness head-on. Certainly, if we advance forward to sever ties with our once treasured companions, an extended season of isolation will assuredly ensue and clutch us tightly in its grasp. It is perhaps this very prospect that offers our fractured relationships an illusory sense of comfort, as their pain seems trifling against the notion of extended solitude. Yet fear not, dear reader, for loneliness is not the dreadful beast we so often imagine. In truth, we dwell in solitude already. We stand alone in our deepest shames, in our wordless moments of remorse, in the ghastly nights when guilt and regret thunder through our consciousness mere seconds before sleep. Alone we sink into that darkness, and alone we rise, to endure another day.

We have been alone from the moment we first gasped for air on this strange and unfamiliar planet, and we remain alone even as we reintroduce ourselves for the ten-thousandth time to strangers and companions alike. We are solitary creatures at heart. 

Perhaps by embracing loneliness in earnest, without trembling, without treating it as a sign of something awry, we might at once unearth the stark truth that we, despite our own self-criticism, are infinitely kinder to ourselves than the people who would use us for their amusement or see us merely as a space filler in their plans. Yes, we may roll our eyes at our small successes in chess, dismiss them as luck, or forget to acknowledge just how ravishing we looked in that azure blouse, but at our core, we do not wound ourselves as readily or as deeply as those who find satisfaction in exploiting our presence. Moreover, in solitude’s silent company, we may find the time and the chance to face the question “Who the hell am I, truly?” Human, yes, sure, adorable, but what kind of human? What do I genuinely take delight in? It is here we might discover that the activities we claimed to love were, in fact, contrivances designed to keep us tethered to people who, in their own unknowing way, were chipping away at our wellbeing. Maybe we detest lung-bursting hiking trips and would much rather spend our evenings immersed in a lively board game. Or, perhaps, we were never the one to flourish in the raucous energy of a nightclub and actually prefer the hushed solace of a late-night diner, sipping coffee whilst reading cloudy essays of Schopenhauer, a place where no one demands us to be anything other than what we are at that very moment.

Be lonely. Yes, that’s precisely what I’m suggesting. It’s the marginal fee for a peace you may have scarcely tasted. Humans are simple beings dressed in sprawling ambitions and trembling aspirations. Strip away their bravado, and you’ll see few patches of flesh governed by an orchestra of neurotransmitters, firing impulses they barely comprehend. And no, don’t look for absolutes in their declarations. When your partner pledges never to stray, remember that “never” is a rather long stretch of time, an ever-widening chasm no mortal can genuinely promise to endure. As for your friends, be aware that should an enticing enough prize glimmer on the horizon, they might quietly offer you as a tribute.. Even your kindhearted relatives, lovely and honorable as they are, are not getting any younger, soon they will depart this existence and rest, and your beloved siblings will, in due course, forge circles of their own, ones in which you, inevitably, hold less sway than you once did.

It sounds grim, doesn’t it? Perhaps you’re waiting for that hopeful coda, the bit where I remind you how all these moments of solitude will coalesce into a life of triumphant self-discovery. And part of me wants to lie to you, to declare that it all ends in a perfectly orchestrated crescendo, where the loneliness dissolves into a radiant rainbow of unconditional love and cosmic understanding. But I have to keep my promise, the one about resisting neat conclusions. Sometimes, being alone is just that: an immersion in one’s own company with no glimmer of external validation. And it is in that unvarnished space, that small, echoing chamber, that we finally hear the resonance of our own voice.