On Solitary
Why is there a need to travel when your own country feels familiarly foreign?
Press PAUSE.
These days I've been walking extremely slow to see how fast the world is moving. Everything is a bokeh of triteness in a dessicated land. I would then recline and submersed myself to the extremely complex syncopated notes of jazz because it makes me marginally productive (or so I feel, but there are no legitimate proofs to uphold my statement), and I am inclined to use this method, every so often, when I run out of vim or vigor which can be found (empty) in the vitality tank deep-seated within the 30th embodiment of my modest physique.
I used to make a seemingly decorous effort to shed some manly tears. It makes me feel like I am born all over again. Strangely, somehow, it makes me want to commit some of the same mistakes in order to prove to the cynics (or people of that sorts who are deprived of fixity!) that I can never be perfect. It's not about breaking down; it's about letting off pent-up emotions (we all have them, many seems to deny, especially men). Crying also revitalises, in some way or another, and the best cries (not the sissy sorts, mind you) should be done in prayers or undisturbed corners without the intervention of other humankinds. Solitary can be gratifying if you know how to define it. By your own musings, the cloistered impetus can be pleasurable.
Poker-faced men should never call a crying man by funny, disconcerting names, like wuss, if those wooden men thought that a man who cries is a wuss. Getting teary-eyed is perfectly normal (any genders considered) even after you reached the age of retirement, or when you collapsed headlong into the entrapment of boredom. Or even when your passions died halfway to your midnight reveries.
Alone, you divert and pursue an interest.
Solo walking is highly recommended, but not under the scorching sun or without an umbrella during wet weather. Truth be told, I'm rather fond of wandering in less-crowded places, usually malls, because it gave me an opportunity to make my own reasoning of the enclosure or situations, without any contradicting logics from shopping partners or pertinacious peers who love to yammer ad infinitum about the next big thing. Next to walking is reading, in an unfrequented park, or a semi-populated cafe. Third would be to watch a film of any kind mid-afternoon in an almost empty multiplex. Fourth, jogging without plugging on to your iPod. Fifth, making observation through people-watching (casual glances, never gawk or stare!). Sixth, filling a canvas with abstract anythings (fruit flies flirting with fleas, droopy-eyed dragons dreaming of drapes, an assemblage of simpletons assigning scientific symbols to suspended cymbals, etc). And seventh, finding your voice (through writing, pen on paper, voice recording, v-logging, fictional memoir, list of whys, gibberish verses, pseudoplay, etc).
I am not here to ramble on the topics of Being Alone, but instead, to puzzle over the dubious subjects of Being Alive. It is easier enough to scribe than acting it out aloud. To find oneself, one needs judgments of self amongst his circle of friends. Often, seclusion involves inclusion. To set verdicts and fulfill expectations; these are daunting tasks at hand. We then invite ourselves to questionings. We might also dangerously lead a path to find answers where little or none exists.
People around you can judge you by what they see, physically -- your appearance and manner appear somewhat contrasting from those perception you had in your mind. But be mindful, that not all visual comprehensions you had painstakingly airbrushed on your thought canvas (in technicolour or otherwise) are distorted illustrations. Alas, they can also be true. Be mindful also that whatever I said, or about to say, can be some formation of lies, or the provenance of that.
Let's just say that the truth is scary. They can betray your foundations.
From a solitary state to another, one reveals every concealment, one plunges into obscure recesses, one lies on the bed of doubts. One probably makes a number of deductions based on remarks commented by mutual individuals, by those whom they fear, or by the people they failed to make any connection with, or perhaps by the ones they seek genuine solace. I could easily find myself by loosing myself, in the jesting of words and in the making of arts. Oftentimes I failed miserably. And sometimes, after contemplating for the longest of seconds on what could be the ideal driving force to keep me going, I sleep.
I could, in situations, find myself when I talked to Him, but this particular action involves a certain amount of intense (or rather absorbed) solitary concentration, which, as I began to understand and learnt, is harder to attain when your mind is bogged down with tenderhearted issues.
Isolation might be one of the issues. Another, the realism of marriage.
I must ask myself, quite earnestly, if the reason for living lies in another person. In finding someone to share the same philosophy of living as me, what then am I asking myself? It was written in many earlier passages made known to man (by man) that we are never alone on earth. I am not taking about ghosts or aliens. I was thought at an early age that everyone is born with his/her partners already inscripted in the Almighty’s detailed scheme; a religious belief, so to speak. Even then, from the earliest beginning, no one is unaccompanied. In our infant life, we struggled to crawl in cadence with the ideals rooted by our loving parents. In our adolescent life, we scattered into lame-brained territories and joined forces with likeminded compadres to pull off nonsensical tricks (usually memorable affairs with comic timings that are workable as stories for children or grandchildren). In our adult life, we shift into higher gears, altering our commitments with the demands of self, maybe parents, or others, like your superiors who are obviously making more money than you (about time that I lead my own creative bureau!). In death, you are advancing through another phase. You will end all connections with those you have lived with, many of whom, at some point in their lives, have experienced loneliness in ways unmeasured.
Completely unreserved and unlatched from any impositions, we are usually at the crest of our characters. By ourselves, in a room of a secluded place, far off a beaten track, in a time and space where time and space carry very little meaning, we can be found at our most vulnerable. That is when we tend to make sense of things - we reconstruct our judgments and reassess data to know who we really are. When we flee into confinement, or pursuit the concepts of reclusion, we will gather our strengths (of whatever's left at our disposal) and reflect on the lows and highs of life. In solitary, our social forms perished, living a life like a wasp born and bred singly.
We hide, before we brace ourselves to embrace challenges.
For that perfect solitary moments, there are many incredible ways, but here are some decent spots that I found quite appropriate to be in by oneself (atmosphere being constant for outdoor, a little cloudy with occasional wind):
1. Airport Viewing Terminal (watching people travelling to other locales)
2. Breakwater, overlooking a sea of nothingness (avoid weekends & holidays)
3. A secluded place that brings back fond memories (of lovers, or the deceased)
4. Bathroom (in a bathtub, but not for too long)
5. The unoccupied dimly-lit section of a library (with or without a book in hand)
6. Cafe (one of few customers, scarcely furnished, hot cocoa for effect)
7. A small room with no Internet connection (enough said)
I'm tempted to say lighthouse, and watchtowers, but I have never been to one, so I gladly stopped at 7.
In the day-to-day ongoings, you should consider other options. Open yourself to reinterpretations. Whenever you are ensnared in a decision-making dilemma, try to free yourself from contemplations and choose the first order in the resolution list(s), quick and without afterthoughts. Worry about the backfires later. Be at your unrehearsed state. Be spontaneous, but never unselfconscious. Heed your visceral voice. Simplify, improvise or act on whims and strange impulses. Be you.
But who are you, really?
Press PLAY.
The world is a place where visions are cast and dreams are shaped, and on many occasions, destroyed. We need people to shove us away from holes of despair; we need buddies (even if it's only one average person) to give us reassurances or to make us realize the potentials we had. We have family members for one sensible reason: to compare some things with another person of the same bloodline. We have lovers to lean on, confidantes to give us courage, pals to be foolish together. It is in our natural ability to assume that we can be better in what we do, perhaps much better than others. Aiming so, we should never compete with the rest to be better. We should strive to be the best for our own good, idealistically speaking (all these optimism coming from a realist, I wonder to myself).
Almost always, our dreams of a perfect life is never in line with the ones we are currently living. There are minor (or major) adjustments here and there. A little snips to make this, a bit of scissions to create that, leaving those, adding these, keeping, throwing, ceasing, building. Normally, we can achieve these without the helps of others. There are days when we totally benefited from them.
We are constantly moving and removing -- gliding to the momentum of change. The slightest movements can affect our daily course of actions.
So here I am from where I was. Altogether now? Or just on my own?
Everything is familiarly foreign as the ear-splitting thunders begin to mock my venial existence. Motion blurriness transpiring in a scaled-down 4-by-4 solitary unit with just enough legroom to feel my anxiety. And all I wanted to say is this -- I must travel soon*.
