I think I need more time alone that I've ever let myself realize.
When I was a kid, I had no problem being alone. At 6 or 7 years of age I'd sit in the backyard, at a little plastic table under the apple tree, and have breakfast by myself. My mom would come out and check on me, and would ask if I'd like company. According to her, I'd always say "No, thanks."
As a 12 or 13 year old I'd go out into the woods alone and pretend to be a survivalist. Occasionally a friend would come along, but usually I'd go solo and I preferred it that way. I'd sit in my room when my parents would have parties and write on my mom's old electric typewriter, short stories and poetry. I'd watch SNL and sketch the actors. I'd draw and read comics.
But, I always had people there if, and when, I needed them. My mother was always around, and was always willing to spend time with me, and we did a great deal. My sisters and I usually just fought, but they were there.
As I've gotten older the prospect of being alone has gotten a bit uncomfortable. You're not really supposed to want to be alone, after all, what are you, some sort of recluse? Especially in this age, when our most inconsequential thoughts are obsessively shared through a hydra of social networking, the idea of solitude is alien. The silence can be deafening.
But hopefully, when we're done being alone, we can have someone to go to. I guess that's what scares me more than anything: my aloneness could be irreversible.
We surround ourselves with people and things, to distract ourselves from ourselves. We go to work, have social obligations, hundreds of interactions a day. We work these muscles constantly, and as technology speeds up so must our exercise. And when the lights go out, the TV and the computer go off, and we lay and stare at a black ceiling and try to sleep, we feel sore.
So with that, I'm off. I'm going to put on my pack and walk, alone, through the city. But I'll make sure that I let my friends and family know that when I'm back, I'll be so glad they're there.
