Tag: solitude

Solitude

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

We are suffering not from the decay of theological beliefs but from the loss of solitude.
Bertrand Russell, ‘On Being Modern-Minded’

‘Life is an abomination, a conscious one more so’
is the mantra that wakes me up every morning,
but once that’s done, it’s time for a yoga session
while the flatbread bakes for a simple breakfast,
and after the body’s needs have been met,
intellectual nourishment is a matter of reflex,
with the occasional break for another meal or excretion
before finally returning to bed at the end of the day.
And while that’s all fine and dandy, sometimes it’s nice to have someone
remind you to breathe.

The last meal

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Abandoned in no man’s land
between the living room and the kitchenette,
I read ‘Portrait of a Lady’ aloud
to the mealy-mouthed hum
of the microwave heating fish
and vegetables for my solitary dinner,
only to realise that it no longer mattered much
who I was before breakfast if no one was there
to tell me how to get through the supper.

Peeping at my neighbours

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski2 Comments

In the comfort of our solitude,
there are no history books,
only diaries,
with no one to satisfy,
no difference to make,

so perhaps I should contract
some fashionable disease
as an excuse to stay in my room
and spend the remaining time
peeping at the next-door neighbours
from behind the curtain—
a family of magpies
going about their business.

After all, I’m mortal, like them,
and that’s the only hope.

The divide

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I’ve only ever talked to myself, even if the words were directed at you,
and you wouldn’t hear my voice anyway, as you aren’t here—you never were,
now that I’ve realised that in order for you to appear before me,
I must first dramatise you, assign you a genre, and only then deconstruct you,
finger by finger and toe by toe, until there is nothing left but a bare midriff
with a navel scar, the only evidence that we were once one.

The bright side

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The memory of each mistake, like a complementary mishap
to the countless accidents that all too often fill life, is the lullaby
that accompanies me every night as I rest my head on the pillow
of an empty bed, and yet I still consider myself lucky—at least
I no longer have to smile.

Crying to ‘At Last’

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I don’t do Christmas gifts—or Christmas itself, for that matter—but if I did,
an Etta James record and a box of soft tissues would be plenty, I guess,
so I’m not a high-maintenance man, yet neither a good girl nor a bad one
writes my name on the tag attached to the wrapper with the Santa motif,
and not even because my solitary life has grown on me after a few years,
or my last date thought I’m a bore and didn’t hesitate to say it to my face,
but because it’s easier to cry to ‘At Last’ than muster up trust once again.

Why am I sad?

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Whether I listen to the clatter of a typewriter or the crackle of sparks
in the fireplace, my voice remains feeble because, in a way, I’m still a child,
for there are things in old books I haven’t learnt and likely never will,
convinced that what’s left is to talk to myself—and even that out of habit
rather than necessity—while sitting in a dark room with the curtains drawn,
staring at a volume of Cavafy and a cup of cold redbush tea, wondering
why I am sad when children were supposed to be carefree, innocent
creatures of forgive and forget.

Calling my name

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My name means ‘gift of Yahweh,’ which is ironic
considering I don’t believe in deities,
and even more so since I was the sole reason
for my parents’ marriage in the first place,
and it wasn’t a happy one. If I were to guess,
they probably had no idea. But come to think of it,
even if I had a name as solid as Peter,
I would still have to get used to being alone
and learn to live with the pain
gradually spreading throughout my arm.
And while I never liked it, it seems having a name
chosen on a whim wasn’t the worst thing after all.