It’s a quiet Friday night in my condo, nearly the next day. While washing up before bed just now, I was brainstorming ideas for an entry. Think, Crysteaux, think…what can we discuss today? Well, quite little has changed in my life since my last post. I wonder why. Oh, right, because I don’t engage with the outside world beyond the bare minimum for survival, i.e. fending off complete crippling loneliness. Vòila!: let’s just write about the l word that’s the most stereotypical motivator for art ever–no, not love–loneliness.
Many believe that people need alone time to fully experience themselves. I might take this stance too seriously–however, with a caveat. In recent years my culture, an industrialized English-speaking Western world, has glorified the art of solitude. Assuming the role of obnoxious nonbeliever, I think this is misguided. This “solitude” refers not to spending quality time with oneself but to to hiding from others and oneself simultaneously through the distraction of personal enjoyments indulged in sans external interruption. I don’t claim this as an absolute, but as an insight that illuminates my main conflicts in life.
I always fantasize about the pure forms of solitude, which to me are times of extreme focus, when one can create things that are authentically one’s own. But I have been slacking in terms of putting that fantasy into practice, largely due to misguided motivations. I find myself propelling towards the band-aid version of alone time, whose purpose is only to fill in the void of real people because real people are messy for my exasperated brain to handle; in other words, they cramp my style.
Crysteaux Sun 