Waking up Alone

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Alaric

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This morning I woke up, as usual, to the sounds of three mule deer drifting silently past my window. I could feel their eyes on me, curiously surveying the human that lays out their needs to survive winter's long journey.

Reaching my foot across the bed, I could feel the ice chill of the emptiness across from me, and suddenly the loneliness rushed across me like an incoming tide of emotional turbulence. I sat up and stared at my Damsel fish, Daisy, who patrols her tank in solitary fury, and saw her watching me, waiting for attention. I fed her as usual, she takes her food from my hand, and saw there was an emerald crab, lifeless, on the bottom of the aquarium. I was immediately sad, grief stricken at the crab's death. It was a life that had passed into eternity unnoticed in the night, but a life for whom there was grief at the passing.

Sipping my coffee as I lay in bed, the sun found its usual way into the room, and made its crazy mural of shadows across the bed. I like to watch them mutate into myriad forms, imagining all manner of things in the changing shapes. It is like living art. But that life only happens where I sleep. The other side of the bed always stays the same, lifeless, unchanging, and the shadows merely grow old with the day until they vanish. The realization filled me with grief at the loneliness I felt.

We, none of us, are meant to be alone. We all wish for that kindred spirit that is meant to co-exist with us. We all seek that wonderful affirmation that says we are okay, and that we are truly worthwhile. For me, I stare ahead at the path my life is taking, and find myself constantly wondering why mine is so solitary. I know as an intelligent being, that there are others out there whose journeys are likewise solitary, and who ask the why of it, but how does one find the map to changing it? How does one find the kindred spirit whose own journey is meant to parallel our own?

Before life passes me over, and I am returned to the breath of the air that surrounds us all, I would like to feel - just one more time - the touch of someone else on my being. I would like to watch in awe at the artwork of shadows on the other side of my bed, carved out by a presence, not my own...
 
I think that is the most beautiful post I have ever read. I'm not even kidding you. It reminds me of Gorgemhaust. The words were so melodic in that piece of fiction and strikingly visual.

Do you think crabs morn fellow crabs?

Please do post more and welcome to ALL. We have a chatroom as well if you can find the link we'd love to see you in there ;)
 
omg i adore you! (hugs)

thank you for the wonderful post, alaric.
loneliness visits all our lives, from time to time, but rarely someone expresses it so evocatively, and with such soft lyricism, and such a gentle, touching melancholy.

thank you.
for the words, for the feeling.

(hug).
 
Thank you all for your welcome. And packyourbags, thank you for your email, it meant a lot to me.

Thanksgiving was yesterday. It is a strange day, from its inception a day meant to be lived in fellowship in gratitude for the kindness of strangers who lived in an age we can scarcely imagine. I spent my day, as I usually do, watching the day pass through all its phases until that day became the next. Human company consisted of old movies on television, and university discussion forums. They are fine, but I like to talk, perhaps too much. Even so, my nasal Australian accent often moves me to silence to avoid its strained cacophony.

The deer ambled by at their usual times yesterday and today, and Daisy took her usual position at the glass. Her companions went about their existence, silent marine janitors with nothing to say, and no mission save survival. Breakfast was black coffee, followed by more black coffee. I drained the pot twice yesterday, and only once - so far - today. The pot is low, so it's almost time to brew more. Lunch yesterday was a sandwich and some creamed rice from a can. I didn't bother with dinner. Today will be different, today it will be toast smothered in Vegemite, and - when the second pot of coffee is gone - apple juice.

A long time ago I journeyed to a place on the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. It is an exquisitely beautiful place, where the land and the ocean collide in a curious symphony of sounds that sing a tribute to the colors green and blue. The percussion of waves on stone and the crackling effervescence of the Atlantic Ocean, combined with the wind's headlong rush through the rolling emerald clad land atop the cliffs, and the choir of seabirds whose voices so melodically resonated against the sides of the ancient cliffs made me wonder that perhaps heaven was here, not on some ethereal plane, out of sight, and out of reach for all but some select, righteous few.

I remember looking out through a haze to the north, and a much heavier haze to the south. The cliffs meander for five miles or more, and they rise and dip like some kind of crazy rollercoaster made for nature's private amusement. I decided it was a show, and that the show times were decided by the elements. When the morning sun is unfettered by the presence of billowing cumulus clouds, the haze appears as a curtain to the south and, as the morning slowly ages, the curtain is rolled into the sky so that the show can go on to the horizon. As the noon glides into afternoon, and then onward into night, the northern show takes its spectacular turn.

That day I was in fine company. My companion understood my awe, and I reflected to myself that this was a view, this was a vista, this was a place worthy of remembering. Without her company, it was a place... Just a place... Something soon forgotten in the absence of reminiscences...

People are not meant to commune only with themselves... I guess this is why we know the term kindred spirits... Perhaps we all should be...
 
SophiaGrace said:
I think that is the most beautiful post I have ever read. I'm not even kidding you. It reminds me of Gorgemhaust. The words were so melodic in that piece of fiction and strikingly visual.

Do you think crabs morn fellow crabs?

That "piece of fiction"? That is my bedroom, my place of rest... I reflected on what was and what is... Not on what could be... Or merely existing in the recesses of my mind...

I think crabs understand the cycle of life, and neither mourn nor lament the inevitable. Perhaps it is hard to have emotions about the order that permits us breath, and also its lack.

Just a thought...
 
oh wow
how can one write so delicately beautiful, and so descriptively
you pick the words just right, its like every thing i try to think of, but could never find the words to explain. and
you should be a writer, or are you?
oooooooo, it sound like music to my ear...i could say.
you'll never be short of words, you know like when someone sees or feels something and go, "i can;t put it into words" that's not you
and after reading it, i thought hmm at least some people can make something beautiful out of loneliness....

Alaric said:
Thank you all for your welcome. And packyourbags, thank you for your email, it meant a lot to me.

Thanksgiving was yesterday. It is a strange day, from its inception a day meant to be lived in fellowship in gratitude for the kindness of strangers who lived in an age we can scarcely imagine. I spent my day, as I usually do, watching the day pass through all its phases until that day became the next. Human company consisted of old movies on television, and university discussion forums. They are fine, but I like to talk, perhaps too much. Even so, my nasal Australian accent often moves me to silence to avoid its strained cacophony.

The deer ambled by at their usual times yesterday and today, and Daisy took her usual position at the glass. Her companions went about their existence, silent marine janitors with nothing to say, and no mission save survival. Breakfast was black coffee, followed by more black coffee. I drained the pot twice yesterday, and only once - so far - today. The pot is low, so it's almost time to brew more. Lunch yesterday was a sandwich and some creamed rice from a can. I didn't bother with dinner. Today will be different, today it will be toast smothered in Vegemite, and - when the second pot of coffee is gone - apple juice.

A long time ago I journeyed to a place on the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. It is an exquisitely beautiful place, where the land and the ocean collide in a curious symphony of sounds that sing a tribute to the colors green and blue. The percussion of waves on stone and the crackling effervescence of the Atlantic Ocean, combined with the wind's headlong rush through the rolling emerald clad land atop the cliffs, and the choir of seabirds whose voices so melodically resonated against the sides of the ancient cliffs made me wonder that perhaps heaven was here, not on some ethereal plane, out of sight, and out of reach for all but some select, righteous few.

I remember looking out through a haze to the north, and a much heavier haze to the south. The cliffs meander for five miles or more, and they rise and dip like some kind of crazy rollercoaster made for nature's private amusement. I decided it was a show, and that the show times were decided by the elements. When the morning sun is unfettered by the presence of billowing cumulus clouds, the haze appears as a curtain to the south and, as the morning slowly ages, the curtain is rolled into the sky so that the show can go on to the horizon. As the noon glides into afternoon, and then onward into night, the northern show takes its spectacular turn.

That day I was in fine company. My companion understood my awe, and I reflected to myself that this was a view, this was a vista, this was a place worthy of remembering. Without her company, it was a place... Just a place... Something soon forgotten in the absence of reminiscences...

People are not meant to commune only with themselves... I guess this is why we know the term kindred spirits... Perhaps we all should be...
 
Alaric said:
SophiaGrace said:
I think that is the most beautiful post I have ever read. I'm not even kidding you. It reminds me of Gorgemhaust. The words were so melodic in that piece of fiction and strikingly visual.

Do you think crabs morn fellow crabs?

That "piece of fiction"? That is my bedroom, my place of rest... I reflected on what was and what is... Not on what could be... Or merely existing in the recesses of my mind...

I think crabs understand the cycle of life, and neither mourn nor lament the inevitable. Perhaps it is hard to have emotions about the order that permits us breath, and also its lack.

Just a thought...

o_o oops! You're right, it's not a piece of fiction :S. I dont know why I put that in there. durr!
 
I think, somehow, there must be words sufficient to evoke emotion. Not being a writer, they all too often elude me, but the outpourings of images that flow through my mind constantly make me seek to make sense of the giant cloud they make. The only tool available to take the image from its source, the imagination, and into that realm outside the place where dreams are born, are words...

Today, as giant flakes of snow descend lazily to fulfill a transient life on earth, I am struck by the way the whiteness of the snowfall creates a kind of wintry blandness everywhere. It is as if the snow wants nothing else to steal from its beauty. But what else could possibly compare to it? Snow, the ultimate scene-stealer, has naught to fear, its beauty is unparalleled, and I wonder if much of its charm is locked in snow's temporariness.

Here, in a Silver City coffee shop, life goes on, and begs me wonder: "Do the walls store each conversation? Does reminiscence keep bricks and mortar alive in the absence of human company? Or do they fade in upon themselves without heady breath, and lively talk to foster life there?"

Just wondering...
 
Alaric said:
I think, somehow, there must be words sufficient to evoke emotion. Not being a writer, they all too often elude me, but the outpourings of images that flow through my mind constantly make me seek to make sense of the giant cloud they make. The only tool available to take the image from its source, the imagination, and into that realm outside the place where dreams are born, are words...

You certainly sound like a writer. Welcome (belatedly).
 
Today is filled with ironies. I have numerous academic papers to complete, and their content is about the human condition under various conditions of duress. Situations that befall people in ways not of their choosing, and other ways people do bring about. The irony, the large irony, is that I am writing constantly about lonely people. An expert on lonely people. An expert on human suffering and tragedy... Yet here I am, alone, taking breaks from work, to not be alone with other people who are alone.

It is afternoon now. The snow fell steadily for two days, yet it is melting all too rapidly. The grass seems grateful, as each long stalk pops up out of the diminishing cloak of white like a spring. But it is all brown, cold, and drab looking. Waiting on sunshine and warmth to bring the green back again. And it's quiet. Even the birds have gone to find some place cozy and warm and out of the elements. The wires stretched between the power poles, are taut from the cold, and water drips from them endlessly. Snow is curiously enlivening and fascinating, but this dampness is dour and sullen, and even the sun does nothing to stymie the depressed mood of the day. There are a few patches of snow on the roof testifying to the effectiveness of the insulation under it. I have no fireplace, so there is no chimney, and no lazy tendril of smoke to drift invitingly from its tip.

Inside, an old movie is playing on the television, it is on one of the satellite stations, Starz I think, but the sound is muted, so I don't really know what it is about. I do not like too much light, so the room's only light is coming from the muted television and the light in the little marine fish tank next to the bed. There are books everywhere. History books, a few "Handyman" books and manuals, and far too many books on psychopathology, social work for rural communities, group dynamics, sociology, anthropology, books on social work policy, and a diagnostic manual. There are no novels, no pictures on the walls, and no adornments about the room save for the cobwebs that hang in the corners. In the webs, different sized spiders wait patiently for their meals to arrive. Each of the spiders has a name, and they are safe from me. I do not disturb them.

I can see directly into the bathroom from here. The tub is old. It must be at least forty years old, and made from cast iron. The lining has the usual collection of shampoo bottles and a pump pack with something in it that has been there so long, I have forgotten what it is. I keep thinking I ought to throw it out, but I always forget. The toilet has one of those awful, cheap covers on it. The cover is red, almost maroon, and worn out. At least it is clean, and the lid closed... I hate toilet seats being left up... There are no shades on any of the lights. They are all bare bulbs - the fluorescent kind that save money and last a long time. The mirror is spattered with something, toothpaste I guess. I know if I clean it, I will be able to see my face in it, but I don't care to look at my face too often, so I rarely clean it.

In the background, the fan in the furnace is humming. Warm air is wafting up through the floor vents to do battle with the cold air that is sneaking in through imperfect windows, and too old siding on the outside of the house. I have socks on to keep the cold out. The thermostat is turned low to save on the gas bill, so it gets cold enough to have to rug up against my stinginess. The socks are odd because I can never find an identical pair. I have lots of socks, but none of them match. They, like every other article of clothing I own, do not get replaced very often. I still have a vest I bought at a thrift store in 1969 when Hippies were still a relatively new phenomenon. I also have a leather motorcycle jacket I bought the same week as the vest. Both have kept me company for literally millions of miles and forty years of being. Even my best clothes are old. It isn't that I can't buy more, or even that I am too mean to buy them, it's just that I don't see the point. There is no joy in it. The joy is in having someone there to say, "No! Not that! It's ugly!" or. "This is lovely don't you think? The color would really suit you..." or perhaps, "Nobody wear tidy-whiteys now... These are much nicer..." But there is no one, so there is no joy... I pick my clothes by grabbing things that are the right size and throwing them into a trolley... There is no joy... Just things to cover nakedness that only I ever get to see...

Time to work again...
 
Dear Lord in Heaven, what beautiful words you write *sighs wistfully*. You describe everything in such vivid detail, I can almost SEE the whole scene play out in my mind.

You must be a writer.

*frowns*

If you aren't, you should be ;). Can I be your fan? No? Well it doesn't matter, I'm gonna be your fan anyway *grins*. Some people are blessed with certain talents - the ability to sing, the ability to dance and yours, the ability to touch hearts with your words.

Don't ever stop :D
 

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