On Loneliness

I read a quote earlier this morning that said, more or less, that loneliness is the result of nobody caring. It really got me thinking about whether or not a person's loneliness can be reduced to such a simplistic idea: I'm lonely because nobody cares. There's something in this statement that smacks of self-pity (I am somewhat of an expert at the whole "I'm pathetic" song and dance, so it really struck a cord), but it only hints at the underlying truth: Sometimes we are lonely because we choose to be lonely.

Sometimes our loneliness is not a condition resulting from nobody caring but instead, by our choice to reject that care because it is not being given by somebody-- a rather specific somebody. I'm not ignorant of the fact that there really are people out there in this world, without a soul to care whether they are warm and dry, whether they live or die. But this...this is not about those people. This is about people like...me. Maybe like you too. People who have some choices when it comes to how lonely we're going to be. Or not be.

We have people that are interested in us, that want to pay attention to us and be paid attention to by us. They want to be a part of our village. They care. But the truth is, we don't care so, none of that really changes anything, and it doesn't ease that longing sense of loneliness, because none of those people who care are the one person or the people that we want to care. Poor, poor us. And I even get the sense that some of us wear the loneliness willingly, maybe even proudly sometimes, maybe like it somehow makes us different or special (look at me! I'm sooooo lonely, lonelier than you even!), when in reality, loneliness is a fashion standard that has been around since the Garden of Eden, since fig leaves. Why do we as human beings, behave this way? Why do we refuse to try on something that will look and feel better on us? Fear? Stubbornness? Habit? Maybe we simply like having something, some struggle, to complain about, and loneliness is as good a struggle as any I suppose. I struggle to understand these ridiculous complexities of the human condition. Sometimes being a person is hard. (Cue violin music.) These thoughts chase circles 'round my little old mind sometimes, and frequently invite insomnia.

So, there we are: alone on the outskirts of the village, ignoring the invitations to the wildebeest roasts, and other such communal events. (Sounds fun, but no thanks. I think tonight I'll just stay home and do a little solitary existential angsting, a little crying into my pillow, and then maybe cap that off with a little solo rain dance.) Or maybe, instead of a village, it's a vast ocean of possibilities, but we lonely, unreachable souls, continue to bob along by ourselves, on a sea full of people who are just waiting to offer life-preservers that may as well be sink-weights. And those people, no matter how wonderful, worthy, attractive, amazing (and more than we deserve really) they are, we just shut them out and shut them off. I can picture them there in my mind, left scratching their heads, a big, useless, round, white floatation device dangling in their collective hand. Humans are the most confusing part of humanity. We should come with a handbook.