It is a curious feeling to be alone by choice.
I am not talking about being alone due to people not wanting to be around you. I know how that feels. That feels different.
I am not talking about not being loved. I know all to well how that feels. That, again, is different.
What I am talking about is when you are in the middle of nowhere with nobody within a mile or two of you.
That feeling is good.
Travelling to out-of-the-way tourist places is a fine way of being alone. If you can find them. Japan is good for this although don’t use chopsticks with great proficiency because the waitresses will praise you Every. Single. Time.
Slightly off topic there, pardon me.
Nowadays, even places like Stonehenge are practically overcrowded. You can’t move among the stones without a bunch of pretend druids wandering around trying to sell you pagan tchotchkes.
Graveyards and cemeteries are great places to be alone. You can look at graves and wonder about the stories of the people who died. Why did Euphremia Frame die so young? How exactly did Silas Grocklesmear fall into a buzz-saw?
I am painting myself to be quite the loser, ain’t I? This next statement will confirm this: I consider the long-deceased to be some of my closest friends. Meh, it is fine, if it bothered me I wouldn’t tell you all.
When you are alone, as I have experienced it, there is a strange sound in your eyes. The sound of silence, oxymoron that it is. Are you picking up what I am putting out? Do you fathom what I am talking about? It is as if there is a slight humming noise, the sound of absolute silence. I love that.
One of the reasons why I crave oblivion.
Silence is wonderful.