In living quite an isolated life for many years, I remember so many weekends where I would always take myself for trips into the larger towns or cities close to my home. I'd head to a café, or a bar - or just sit in a park, and watch the world pass by for a while. But this was not really because of a deep love of actually being in these places; rather, I suppose I was just trying to feel some semblance of connection. Obviously, I hoped that the sheer volume of other people would give me a chance to strike up a conversation with someone. (Or, ideally, maybe they would strike up a conversation with me first, as I was always so ridiculously shy!) But to be honest, even that ideal of a meaningful conversation was almost secondary - because really, these little daytrips were just my attempt to feel part of something. Do you know what I mean? Even if that was only as a drop of silence in an ocean of noise. Yet over the course of time, I must admit - I became increasingly dejected by these little weekend excursions.
I rarely made eye contact with anyone for more than a few moments . . . let alone got anywhere near striking up a conversation! And far from being a help to me - the only thing I really learnt from these trips is that it is truly remarkable just how alone one can feel . . . even in a city where there is a multi million population! In fact, I remember one time, while sitting in the middle of an iconic city square in the height of summer - I found myself watching two young lovers feeding a pigeon together. And all I could think of was "man . . . that pigeon has spoken to more people today than I have for the whole entire week!"
So, in the end, I pretty much gave up on whatever I hoped those little trips would achieve. Of course, I still do pay a visit to the city every so often. But only when there is a definite goal - i.e a museum exhibition, or an art gallery show etc. Otherwise, in general, I far prefer to spend my time just wandering out into the heart of nature instead. These places where silence speaks more than words; And where, ironically, I am far more alone but far less lonely!
Where is home
(A poem originally written in 2014, when I was 20 years old)
I walk on my own Not alone = just on my own. On the stony road that leads to home But the question is . . . Where is home? * Is it here, on these familiar streets; which hear my thoughts, and hurt my feet - Where I've laughed, and cried, and bled regrets of words we left unsaid? Or perhaps it's where I thought of first; That dirty city of my birth; Where I was both blessed and cursed to live a life upon this earth. No. The truth is . . . nowhere is home for me. Not the city, the country the town, or the sea. Not a palace made of gold, or a cardboard box out in the cold! No! Nothing in the worldly whole can ever satisfy this soul. * So I'm stuck inside the same routine; trying to stay clean in a dirty scene; and pining for a place I've only seen inside my dreams. But the very fact that I've seen it there must mean that it exists somewhere! And it's my everlasting wish to find that place of perfect bliss. * To lie down in the sunflower fields; when all my scars and wounds are healed; And feel what's truly real, with no more need for sword of shield. Or to sit beside a shallow sea with those who paved the way for me, and watch with starry eyes as the moonlight shines in midnight skies. * Until then . . . I suppose I'll have to wait. Just let my life be led by fate I didn't come here on my own; so someone will have to take me home. But if one day I should disappear; Just be glad, because I was never really here. And if you think I'm gone, you're wrong . . . I've just gone back to where I'm from.
This resonated with me George. Thank you. I am also alone but not lonely. The difference for me is that I am a 'talk to anyone' sort of person and I can find conversations with people and am fascinated to listen to their stories. I still don't 'fit in' anywhere and I finally feel okay about that.
This is humbling. What a place at the table you have waiting if you want it. Like many poets you may not need it, but it’s yours for the taking.