Whether it is a touchscreen, a typewriter, or a vintage fountain pen, alone
is a five-letter word. But I’ve found that focussing on the writing implements
helps forget about that disturbing detail.
To think, a measly five characters could encompass my entire state of being.
Frankly, I’d rather be single. At least then I would attract condemnation,
not pity.
It’s been three years since I’ve been alone—longer if you consider the period in which my marriage fell apart—and I think I’ve got used to being on my own; I don’t need anybody in my solitary life anymore. At least that’s the mantra I kept telling myself every morning after waking up and every evening before going to bed. But today I met a woman who proved that I’ve been wrong all this time. Well, met is perhaps an overstatement, as she passed me in the grocery aisle as if I were nothing but a mere shadow on the floor, which isn’t much of a surprise considering she looked about half my age and was stunningly beautiful. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous, stopping at the sight of her as if I had turned into a pillar of salt, assuming, of course, that she even noticed me. Even more amazing was that she spoke my native language to the couples she met further down the aisle.
I have no idea who she was, and I’m sure I’ll never see her again. And even if so, what could I offer her? I’m a nobody—a bitter middle-aged man, ridiculously shy and awkward in social situations—who used to write poetry and now just pretends to have something to say in his journal until he gives it up, like everything else in his life. No wonder I’m not afraid of death—I’m already a ghost.
Reading, generally speaking, is a solitary endeavour, and apart from an occasional marginalia or folded page corner, there is very little that connects you with other readers—nothing beyond the awareness that other lonely souls have also touched these pages. Or so you might think.
Although I love the unique sensation of touching paper, I also appreciate the new opportunities offered by modern technology. For example, my e-book reader displays highlights made by other readers along with information about how many of them found the particular fragment important—the following quote, for instance, has been highlighted fifty-one times: “So it seems that the soul, being transported and discomposed, turns its violence upon itself, if not supplied with something to oppose it, and therefore always requires an object at which to aim, and whereon to act.” (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 02 by Michel de Montaigne, in translation of Charles Cotton)
And just like that, I know that there are fifty-one kindred spirits somewhere with whom I can connect in thought. So perhaps when you read, you are alone. But never lonely.
hidden pilcrow 