The Loneliness

Loneliness.

Caught in a situation that is good;

but bad; bad, because I'm lonely

Good, because I seek truth

Good because I'm scientific minded; good because I can claim to know;

but know what'? The objects and their relations The architecture of our living? 

I see, and can settle myself down within the eye that see's. 

But what do I see? What I can't be? Or could be? If I only tried...

But i'm tired inside; I'm afraid, I run to hide. Where can I go, when the

enemy lives inside? When it is 'I', my very watching eye, which enacts 

the same way of being, again and again? Do I have any friend, but this I?

It is the wounded circles, the wheels inside

it's knowings trap within their circuits, the pain, and the abuse 

of the other: the world outside left its scars inside; I feel my wound; the pain,

which festers outwards; face depressed; breathing weakened; heart rate slow;

personality weakened. Beaten. Defeated. A whole life, a whole mind, weaved

from circuits of pain. The brain: the machine too complex to know without science

No longer can knowledge stand defiant; but must now, knowing better, be reliant,

on the circuits of our neurons. 

My only joy is this; learning, bliss. I cannot reminisce. No friends. No mind of the kind

Embodied outside. The outside, seen for what it is - a bulwark built by the top, seeing it,

I contemptuously deride; but this truth of description, too zealously abides - sits inside...

And unfolds its webs in my perceiving mind; wanting to communicate; wanting to engage...

days, hundreds, thousands, years, 15, 16, 17? I cannot remember. I can but I can't. What am I?

Addicted; addicted to my life. To my ease; to my weed; to the showers in the night. To sleep - sweet sleep

giving my mind a replenishing refreshment. Little joys. Little wins. But reading - my only goal, the only thing

which touches the whole. This task I've committed myself to - so much. The world "out there" - why must I and it

feel incompatible - when it is not? and it is me? And I feel lost for words to describe my bewildering fear; my morbid dejection. 

How can someone who can be so normal, such as I, yet be this person in this context? The others - little portals,

into my self - into those traumatized places, spaces, within me, which respond to signs and cues of the unresolved past? I speak trauma; I read trauma; I know it in its many subtle ways - neurological, psychological, sociological, historical, ecological. But I live it; enact it; am it, and frustratingly still feel my self, intellectually adventurous but spiritually timid - not willing to expose myself, to unwield myself, to the state of interpersonal fusion with an other. 

You do this. You do this all the time. At home; with your family. You embody normality, resiliency, a self amidst others with differences. You contain yourself as you contain them. There is a peaceable, positive regulation. 

Why not elsewhere? Because my fear precedes me. To know me; to meet me - - for the stereotypy of "first impressions" to occur, to dictate the reflexive basal ganglia of another to feel fear at seeing me; can I blame them? 

Should evolution or biology or God be blamed, that things are machine-like? Wheels within wheels? Cycles within cycles? Stupid mindless egotistical reflexive human beings? 

At the end, you, observer friend, are the same as that which exists in the others. I have been forced to know you to regulate myself. I have been forced, somewhat, to become you. But you are not complete with your "other". 

You seek enlivenment - you seek existence. You seek interpersonal connection - knowing, being with an other. You seek to be a self - to be real to an other, and to be loved by an other. 

To know so much, a gift; a curse. A gift to myself and, if all pans out, to the humanity I am apart of. But how lonely, how fundamentally lonely it is, to be on this journey in life, this alone, without an other, a love, with which to share

my self.