Sometimes I Just Want to be Alone
Actually all the time
These days I just want to be alone. In fact my need for solitude could be categorized as catastrophic by life coaches who used to be friends but are now just symbols that represent why I love to be myself.
I enjoy my own company a little too much. I think it’s because I’ve reached the point of no return. I completely get how fucked up most people are and why they desperately want to bring you along for the ride.
I see through all the tricks and shimmering facade and I want no part of it.
There is a motive behind everything we do — even basic shit like taking a photograph with friends.
They do you the favor of including you in their Snapchat story — but then it really ends up being their starring role.
It’s all too much.
This need to perform for the camera — as if every second of the day must be documented to perfection in order to prove beyond a doubt — that you are not a pathetic loner with no friends or cool itinerary of events to shamelessly share like a four-year-old aching for approval.
I am that loner.
But I’m definitely not pathetic. I would describe myself as chronically particular. Gone are the days of recklessly accepting everything and everybody.
I have relinquished the need to adhere to a standard of living that has been mandated by the wiles of social media.
When you get older — the idea is that you also get wiser. My version of getting up there in age comes in the form of wanting to simplify my life as much as possible.
When I was younger — I remember thinking my dad was somewhat of a grouch and a major buzzkill. My mother was the social butterfly and my dad preferred to stay home and chill.
I couldn’t understand why he was so triumphant in his need to interact with as few people as possible. He had two really close friends that he was abundantly loyal to. One was a entrepreneur from India and the other was a colleague from work.
Everyone else just happened to get his attention when they could but it wasn’t from his high level of enthusiasm.
Now I totally get it.
I am my father. I value substance over bullshit and I won’t pretend that I enjoy your company on the worldwide web because it adds to your authenticity.
Too much of anything is brutal. We do need a better sense of balance or else we become caved in and develop weirdly established habits that don’t translate in the real world.
But, there is no such thing as — the real world.
It’s all fake and muddled out there.
Y’all are normal and blissfully photogenic. And I’m a gorgeous hermit who needs a rule book to survive.
I can’t find a job because not enough people like me or follow my inherently unstaged pursuits.
And I can’t find a boyfriend because I refuse to post my most recent Hi-Res image to illustrate just how darn fuckable I am.
I can’t maintain friendships because Facebook turned my page into a scavenger’s nest that I am too lazy to clean up.
I am hiding out and riding high on this wave of sanctimonious alertness that is way more dope than the feeling you get when 100 people dig your pool side portrait on Instagram.
This army of one is fighting for the civilization that is yet to be unveiled.
In the meantime — shutting out the maddening crowd is warranted and appreciated.
The vital ones find me and remain for reasons that don’t have to be logged in or framed in bedazzled filters.
That is why one is never the loneliest number.
