A Discourse on Loneliness by Anonymous

As the humble darkness combated the light of my computer, I thought to myself “so this is what loneliness feels like”. At that moment loneliness became my friend, a friend you would welcome and expect for dinner, one that understands you and whatever you want to be at any given moment. For me, the word “lonely” does not hold the same negative connotation as it does for others. At first I was as extroverted as one could get. Being around people gave me energy, an extraordinary energy that can never be emulated by anything other than the pure elated spirit of the new generation. After 16 years of exposure to the consistent noise of people and their beautiful emotions, to the eminence and intellectual depravity of the most glorious social experiences, I saw what grasped people to forget their future, just as I did, and continue on the path of nihilism.

I was alone, writing a paper about modernism in The Great Gatsby. The characters attending the wild outings at Gatsby’s had given me reason to reminisce on the days when I lived without cares. It painfully reminded me of my past, in both the embarrassing way that history, which ought to be never told out loud, gets told and with the sensation of ones most sentimental memories coming from ones most sentimental years accumulating into a manifestation of the rawest emotion that is ultimately intangible and just out of the reaches of perception. I knew I had changed and I desperately wanted to know the contrast between my new existence and the ways of my old comrades. Had I become so different now that I could not even understand them? No, I was just able to see what they are for the first time. What I saw in my generation was genuine carelessness. It is the most authentic carelessness and they are lucky to possess it because carelessness is not simply born from weakness or laziness—Carelessness is a virtue of love. Love that can only materialize from the most amorous trials; benevolence defeated to all the way to despondence. A movie that I cannot recall told me that when man feels the most intense form of love, he no longer fears death. It is that very same crude, unrefined love that is surrounding my fellow citizens. It is all around them, in every part of their simple lives. Comradery in abundance. But their intense depths of passion are veiled by their banal everyday life. The wearisome routine of existence laced with the most brilliant hews. But in that lies the worst part—they cannot even realize it. They cannot even see the beautiful seraphs of affection emanating from their midst. That fact destroyed me, and at that moment I realized I was different from the masses. Once the realization of differences occurs, there is not one person who can fathom your particular condition. Your differences will exclusively be understood by you. It is like having a leviathan of sentiment, that can never be translated into the horde’s vernacular. Thus, there is no sympathy, no understanding, only perplexity to your existence.

I receded into loneliness, disturbed by the emptiness but just as death by frost welcomes its victim with a warm embrace before the divine moment of expiration, loneliness enveloped me into its abode of euphoric plainness, it became my friend, I got to know loneliness, I began to prefer my own presence rather than the carelessness of Man.



Tomohiro Miyachi