I’m a man who likes to be solitary. I love to be alone with my body and my mind, exploring both. I ran into trouble early with your mum, as she comes from a family where no one is ever alone, ever. No one from her family does anything solo, or quietly for that matter.
Walk into my family’s house at Christmas time and you’re likely to find everyone with their faces in a book.
I had a realisation last night. To really learn about myself, I have to truly be alone. When I say truly alone, I don’t just mean on my own without other people. I mean alone without distractions. No devices, no books, no shows, no chores. They are all colourful and entertaining noise that prevent me from touching that deep place where the boundless lies.
It’s tough to be truly alone.
It’s difficult to not distract myself with all this novel and wonderful noise, these nostalgically photographed cookbooks, those five-star self-development books, some new and shiny techniques for saving time and achieving… stuff.
However, after years of practice, I’ve observed within myself a personal trend towards entertainment boredom. I can’t watch shows or movies without a deep sense of boredom. They all seem so infantile, so shallow. Not one of them touches on what it means to be a human alone. No show discusses the pain within and the way to heal it. No one talks of the ocean of creativity that lies deep beneath the surface where monsters and beauties and the most incredible creations lie. No one seems to know of the greatest detective story never told – the uncovering of your history, past, present and future.
If more people knew about it, Netflix would be out of business.