Loneliness – It’s not always what you think

Loneliness – It’s not always what you think

I have been basically alone for a month. I told you that I have spent entire days without having a conversation. I was unable to be alone before I got here. I was wrought with anxiety - so wrought that I like the images of shirtless men wielding hammers and flame to my not so ferrous frame. So wrought that I feel more akin to my father’s spiral staircase than I have ever been. “Walk over me!” It’s funny to know that I never said such a thing, but I could have. It would have been faster.

I have been physically alone for a month. The people next to me are often not that next to me. The people with me fleet. For need and cause I have taken up my pen and drawn in the walls of city silence, my most consistent compatriot. It would be errant to not recognize my brother in arms. I have taken up my pen and used it as a child’s sword to draw upon these walls. It would be unwise to not try to make this friendship mine.

To make it mine. To make it mine. I have had some of my most contented moments under the sweat stained shroud my loneliness has draped over me. I stared without a sound at the rotors above me while at home today. I was lying, and thinking about my luck. Thoughts did not jump in my head like cheap Mexican tricks; it was not like it usually is. Dreams and thoughts were dolled out. “Gruel for you Sam Chereskin? Yes, please I would love some more.” It was a moment that Dickens would not drain to write, but would love to live. Cool, refreshing, and perfectly controlled – my mind was like a garden hose in summer with free flowing gems that were perfectly controlled in the summer heat. I felt like I understood myself. I felt like I have learned enough things about myself—things that are hard to learn—to be contented for a day. I later set to work without reservation. I ate lunch by myself as always. I sat down on my roof and tanned my feet as I once again read about Mr. Darcy and Ms. Bennett. I got to page 120 that day.

But walking down the street. But realizing that you have not worn clean clothes in a month. Upon taking pictures of yourself just as photographic record of how within thirty seconds of putting on clothing that your expensive shirt and your appearance have become irreversibly transparent. Upon realizing that I have not peed in three days even though you drink between two and four liters of water a day. Upon realizing that you had not even missed it, and that you cannot fully recall the sensation. Upon realizing that it is undoubtedly caused by how much you sweat. Upon realizing that you want convenience again. That you want to tell someone about all the things you learned from your days alone, and from your days with millions upon millions of other people who your friends will never see… upon doing all these things the sweat stained shroud of loneliness simply becomes your sheet. It simply is that disgusting looking floral print sheet from the department store you never liked. It is simply dirty. It is simply sticky. It is simply nothing to you emotionally, and everything to you physically as you recall it is your only barrier from the even dirtier mat you call a bed. It is in these moments when the shroud is a coffin. Simple. Unimpressive. Probably made of cheap oak and open for everyone to see – like that funeral I saw three weeks ago. It is simply outside of your ability to control.

That is the loneliness that I settle into sometimes. It is physical, and is not mine. My mind is mine. My body sometimes feels like it isn’t.

I am settling in, and I will find the pillow once more. I will see the next sunrise through my window, and I will dance again.

I just wonder how it is that in a place where I have so many revelations, how it is that I cannot be sure whether I am slipping into sanity or out of it.

Bring yourself to ask, “How is it that so many things happen at once?”

All I want to do right now is go back to Jane Austin.




I have since gotten my clothes washed. I found a great café. I’ve started to catch up at work. I am almost done with Pride and Prejudice. I’m going to Gourgon tomorrow- I get to see something new which always excites me. My cousin said she would help me try to get into the classroom. I will have background information and at least 6 letters of recommendation when I take it to uncle and the CPS system. I’m happy today. I wanted to share this post because this is one of the few places I spell out what bad days feel like. We all have them, but we don’t always talk about them. They are downers. Even those delivered by friends are hard to deal with too often. I share it because living without air conditioning in a place that ranges from lows of 90 to highs of 115 has defined part of my time in Delhi. It has defined how I sit in rickshaws; how I handle my cell phone (so sweat doesn’t run it)… it effects how and whether I am affected. Good days and bad.

I think the constancy is interesting.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about Photography and Rain, why my father suggested I hide my camera in a box of cigarettes, the Delhi intersection I like the most, and how my meetings have gone.

I’ll leave saying that I saw an 8-year-old girl making roti the other day. She lives five minutes walk from me place in a row of tents on an undeveloped lot. She was wearing a pink dress. She sat low on the sidewalk, and tended to the bread and open kerosene flame. At the moment I saw her she wasn’t paying attention to the bread though. Her hand was still working, but she was looking up and smiling at her friend. Her teeth matched the whites of her eyes. You’ll have to trust me. It was a beautiful smile.