Loneliness is elastic.It’s elastic in the way it insulates the self from the world,and its epidermis runs really thick. Loneliness is also a structure,that builds on itself,and in that sense,it is also a process,and some of us are stuck in its local inertia. Loneliness should not be confused with passive stillness,it is very much active in the way it enforces and insists upon itself. There is a very basic mathematical relationship between loneliness and us. The velocity at which loneliness builds on itself,and the number of days we live through it are inversely related. It’s quite cruel to enforce a property as alienating as loneliness,as a fundamental tenet of a person’s being,but some of us are unfortunate enough to be syntactically lonely. Loneliness is not an external imposition but the logical conclusion of who they are. It’s imperative to the trapped self to break free of this ever expanding structure,and this elaborate continuity of friction against who one is syntactically,and who he wants to be is his existence, not a part of his existence but its entirety.
One almost has a primal understanding of one’s own mother tongue,there is an opaqueness to our understanding in translations. Meaning that is intended by the author/speaker,puts on a lot of weight in translations and gets rid of the locality or nativity of the original words,it loses it’s sharpness. Intent is an intractable property of words,and it’s best understood in its nativity where syntax and grammar neither interferes nor infringes upon the purity of intent. One understands through the incommunicable, beyond the bloodshed of literature and language. When a society undergoes a rapid emancipation from their own dialect of being,they gradually lose things,and language is one of those lost artifacts. Syntax is really important when one starts to embark upon the fringes of foreign tongues,and it’s a rigid structure that one must carry,it is no different when one tries to understand a process that translates not to language,but to states of being. When one is tasked with the near impossible task of deciphering why one is lonely,he first looks at the syntax of the suffering he goes through because of his loneliness,and since he is insulated by the very elasticity of what he tries to understand,he is forced to confront and question his very nature of existence,he falls through a suspension of faith in the very tenets of his being and concludes the insignificance of his own life. One inhabits loneliness,the same way a language disappears,through rapid emancipation from his originality. Loneliness is far more native and primal than language,and thus cannot be domesticated to our whimsical definitions of it that leans on the structures of language.
To exist,in the chasm of this friction between syntax and intent is almost a sisyphian task in itself. There’s no remedy to structural loneliness that builds on itself,that evolves with you. It’s an involuntary motion in our being.In it’s bleakest form,this kind of loneliness is not circumstantial,but rather existential, it’s a logical conclusion to the nature of our being and we have no sovereignty over it. It is stubborn in its perpetuity. Our relationship with existential suffering is antagonistic in nature,we revolt and resist against the waves of insistent indifference,we can engage in our search for a resolution of existential dread and angst because we have some invaluable capital,and that is the knowledge of a better demarcation between suffering and existence. It’s not as much important to have a lived experience of this divide,as it is to just have a knowledge of it. To know,deep in our bones that the darkness of a painful night must come to an end,is a sort of an exorcism from parasitic existential dread. Loneliness,in the form we have described so far,strips one of this knowledge,his lived experience is asymmetric when compared to us. He has no demarcation between suffering and existence,rather he dissolves on the other side of the divide. He becomes an example of quiet surrender,or what one comes to call as misfortune.
Why does the person trapped in perpetual loneliness,find it difficult to break apart from it,in a society that has done its absolute best to romanticize suffering and loneliness? We have attributed loneliness to be an aesthetic quality,one finds in others and this severity in lack of understanding of the nature of loneliness,leads to further alienation. The one who is perpetually lonely doesn’t have the luxury of aesthetic,he doesn’t have authority of changing his aesthetic,but rather his aesthetic is an output of his state of being,and we have failed to grasp the gravity of loneliness that is not aesthetic, but an entire state of being. There can be,and I insist there are,different kinds of loneliness,the one we discuss here is systematic and revokes one of poetic license over it.
After enough time has passed, one attains a meditative state of solitude. One becomes so alone, so utterly alone, that he writes his own Eulogies. It is a way of bitter resignation, one of absolute submission. He gathers around his broken faith,and splits his being into two,for validating his own existence. He is both the mourner and the mourned. He is condemned to be lonely,and he resigns to his indifferent fate,and his final act of resignation is one of resistance. He achieves his act of resistance through existential mutilation. He takes the boulder of his suffering to the mountain-top, but doesn’t wait for it to fall,he throws it off the cliff. He turns his passive act of suffering as a subject on its head and actively participates in the slaughterhouse that his life has become. Some of us,will bear the burden of such an invincible loneliness,and perhaps some of us will be swallowed in its wake. Almost all philosophical digressions begins with a question formed upon the fertility of suffering and ends with a conclusion to fight against it, as if it was a promised Mathematical proof. This hash of thought here, on brutal and banal loneliness,refuses to conclude with a leap to the promised solution. Sometimes,there is no exit,but we can still write our own eulogies,even though no one will read it,fry our Sunday bacon and sunny side ups to our preferred crisp, dance to Nat Cole’s Latin jazz at 4:15 in the morning,even though no one will show up to our door with tired annoyed eyes,we can still make it through.And that,perhaps is enough.