Everyone is lonely. People with close friends are lonely. People with intact nuclear families are lonely. Married people are lonely. Siamese twins are lonely. No amount of contact with humans can change this fundamental part of human existence. It is the presence of others that creates this lonesomeness. The fact is, we float suspended in an ocean of our own sensations and thoughts and history, reaching out to each other across the incomprehensible distances between us.
We treasure the fleeting, luminous moments when we feel like we've touched something, someone, anyone. The obstacles between us are empty space, holding us aloft, alone. We look across space and interpret blinking stars in Morse code, wondering if the messages are real or just random space dust passing in between.
Is there anyone out there?
What are these “other people” but imagined futures and a million versions of memories, with questions tacked to each one, imaginings about their experience. What are they feeling and thinking? What do they see from where they sit, on some far off plateau built of memories and impressions and beliefs unknown to me, untouchable by me? They are all fictional. Stories I tell myself. Perhaps they tell stories about me too.
But.
Perhaps the stories are what matter. Tell me the story of myself, and I will tell you yours. In Morse code, across vast distances, blinking stars. If we're describing what we see, and what we describe is each other, we must both See. We must both have telescopes. We must both exist. We must not be alone. This is an act, not a state-of-being.
So polish your telescopic lenses, friend, for the only momentary relief from the pervasive alone we all feel because of each other is each other.
We treasure the fleeting, luminous moments when we feel like we've touched something, someone, anyone. The obstacles between us are empty space, holding us aloft, alone. We look across space and interpret blinking stars in Morse code, wondering if the messages are real or just random space dust passing in between.
Is there anyone out there?
What are these “other people” but imagined futures and a million versions of memories, with questions tacked to each one, imaginings about their experience. What are they feeling and thinking? What do they see from where they sit, on some far off plateau built of memories and impressions and beliefs unknown to me, untouchable by me? They are all fictional. Stories I tell myself. Perhaps they tell stories about me too.
But.
Perhaps the stories are what matter. Tell me the story of myself, and I will tell you yours. In Morse code, across vast distances, blinking stars. If we're describing what we see, and what we describe is each other, we must both See. We must both have telescopes. We must both exist. We must not be alone. This is an act, not a state-of-being.
So polish your telescopic lenses, friend, for the only momentary relief from the pervasive alone we all feel because of each other is each other.
This is great. Very potent imagery: space dust giving the impression of messages from the stars, isolated individuals sitting atop towers of memories and beliefs... We do seem to be fundamentally diconnected, physically we can alter our proximity but mentally we're like islands, and words are just clumsy symbols. We can't know the experiences of another with any confidence. On the other hand, "the fleeting, luminous moments when we feel like we've touched something, someone..." Though imperfect, are a kind of miracle.
ReplyDeleteImperfect miracles. Exactly.
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