The Luster of Loneliness

A letter to the lonely, and a summons to the Soldiers of Solitude.

         Loneliness is the blight of life. It corrupts our consciousness and drags us into despair. Fear of isolation can overpower even the most rational survival instincts. We'll stay in toxic, even dangerous situations just to avoid it. So brutal is its languish, solitude has been used as drastic punishment, even forms of torture. The impact it has on our minds is massive; given enough time, it'll drive anyone to madness.

         Family, friends, community--the remedy seems simple enough. For the fortunate majority, it's a fairly easy fix. There are others, however, that cannot escape it. Loneliness haunts them. They can't be rid of it. No matter the company, there it lurks. They can surround themselves with the most loving of people, and it'll only worsen. In fact, it's often in the presence of others that it strikes hardest. Nothing compares to the defeat of finding love, support, and comradery, only to still feel all alone. Those who don't understand call them crazy; doctors deem it illness. No pill on Earth, nor any amount of therapy, can keep that monster at bay, for it's not an ailment of the mind--limitless loneliness stems from the soul.

         This makes the prognosis grim: If you are born into loneliness, and you live in loneliness, then you will die in it. So quit running, and stop fighting, because resistance will make you think death is the only relief. Eventually, you'll start to crave it--even if you have to do it yourself.

         The trick is to befriend your loneliness. Counterintuitive as it may seem, loneliness is like a Chinese finger trap. The more you pull away, the tighter its grasp. To ease the tension, you must lean into it. When you do, you'll find it's not an unbeatable bane, but a beautiful boon.

         To explain, we'll have to go back to the beginning of all things. Our current leading scientific theory is that all things were once one thing, until it exploded and eventually became everything else. Of course, this is just a theory, and what The Universe was before that big bang is left to speculation. However, one thing is certain: One is the loneliest number.

         Long before science was properly established, mythologies from all over the world had already come to a similar conclusion. From Kaos to Ginnungagap, most creation myths suggest everything came from the black void of nothingness. Even Christianity says, "In the beginning, God said, 'Let there be light.'" The implication being, before creation was set in motion, God was in darkness...

         Alone.

         Can you imagine that lunacy? To be all there is, imprisoned in a paradox between being and oblivion. Nothing to acknowledge you, nobody to talk to but yourself, and the crushing knowledge that it will never change. It presents a quandary similar to the unheard tree falling in the forest: If you exist, but there's nothing else to perceive you, then can you be certain you exist at all? It's a predicament maddening enough to make anyone want to blow themselves up--even God.

         Here's where the religiously inclined run screaming. People hold tight to the belief that God, The Universe, or what have you, is a great all-powerful being of infinite wisdom and grace. The idea that an entity of light watches over us and controls the chaos ebbs our fear of the void. Suggest our creator is a depressed deity of darkness driven insane by infinite isolation, and you just wrecked the one fragile defense against immense existential dread.

         The concept of a conscious cosmos usually dissuades the evangelical atheists. Talk of souls and spiritual afflictions have no place in the world of science; which is a shame, nothing new is learned if no one challenges the boundaries of knowledge. Besides, The Universe being inanimate doesn't detract from the point. Because even then, our consciousness--just like everything--still comes from a deep, dark singularity. Isolated, yet connected to all there is.

         But this message isn't for the religiously rigid, nor the scientifically stubborn. These words aren't for those committed to any creed, because it will surely contradict their convictions. So let them run, or roll their eyes, but take no insult from their ignorance--they don't know what you know, they can't feel what you feel. This message is for those with a loneliness so deep, science lacks the knowledge to explain it, and religion hasn't the wisdom to advise it. This letter goes out to the Soldiers of Solitude.

         Heroes, heed this heresy: It is not the responsibility of Creation to comfort us, but our duty to comfort Creation.

         Consider the creative process in people. Artists of every medium have a reputation for being depressed, addicted, habitually bored, or otherwise lonely. They don't create out of consideration for their creations' feelings, they create to express their own, and learn from the experience. A story with a happy beginning, joyous middle, and exuberant ending is as boring to write as it is to read. A song that doesn't vary its emotional tempo can get old quickly. A painting requires darkness if the artist is to display any depth.

         Reality is the artwork of The Eternal Loner woven into the void. Asking God for the meaning of life is like the Mona Lisa asking Da Vinci for the meaning of her canvas. If a character in a novel swore off their author's existence for allowing the evils of their world, the lonely artist would chuckle at the irony, and carry on writing their story. Creating is a way of coping through catharsis, which makes us the emotional expressions. Our journeys, struggles, evolution, and growth are more than just learning experiences for ourselves. Creation is God's existence by proxy, and our role is to embody emotions that fill the emptiness of eternity.

         A sickening amount of self-awareness is the summons into the service of solitude. The more aware of yourself you are, the quicker you realize nobody else really is. The more you understand yourself, the harder it is for others to relate to you. Introspection teaches an interconnection that endows you with enormous empathy; ironically, that's even more isolating. Delving the depths of the soul just to survive your service makes everyone shallow by comparison, and leaves you alone in the darkness of those depths.

         The knowledge you're alone is crushing, but finding wisdom in it is uplifting.

         All paths lead to loneliness because that's reality's truest nature: a fractured singularity imprisoned in the paradox between being and oblivion, talking to itself. It's no coincidence spiritualists seek solitude to connect with their Creator. From Jesus wandering the desert, to Buddha beneath the fig tree, the icons of enlightenment have spent a great deal of time in isolation. Mystics invented the motto, "To know thyself is to know God." And shamanic traditions pass around the saying, "Loneliness is The Universe calling your name."

         Most spiritual seekers have to sequester themselves, vow silence, or otherwise get lost to inflict enough loneliness upon themselves to find a connection with The Cosmos. But not a Soldier of Solitude--you don't have to do a damn thing--because it found you. Others have to escape the world to find what you would give the world to escape. Depression showed up day one to induct you into the draft, but issued you a direct line to the divine.

         Take comfort in knowing your creator is as crazy as you, it means you're neither forsaken nor forgotten. The frustration of calling out to no reply isn't unique to you--it's the emotional expression of The Eternal. So quit running, and stop fighting; instead, start befriending. Empathize with that eternal emptiness. Let the sadness of the singular show you the madness of our maker, and behold how loneliness is the muse that begat us all.

         Loneliness is the universal language of anyone seeking their creator, or seeking to create--and you're fluent. When a Soldier of Solitude speaks the language of loneliness, they wield a weapon that can turn the tide of the fight to their favor: Magic.

         Not witchcraft, not spellcraft, and certainly not stagecraft. Although, magic is an art, so the involvement of crafts is understandable. It's not a mystic force that makes overt changes, or something that makes you all-powerful. Robes, rituals, and rites can serve a purpose, but are ultimately unnecessary. Because at the root of it, all mysticism revolves around the connection to the Cosmic Consciousness.

         Magic is the genesis that ensues when the madness of a creator evolves from the sadness of the solitary--when life becomes an artform. It's a knack for manifestation brought about by a close relation to reality, and an intense intuition informed by inherent interconnectedness. An artist doesn't paint for the praise of their portrait, nor do they require their work to worship them. Relation comes from emotional expression and reciprocation, which makes loneliness our emotional link to eternity. Magic happens when you answer the call of The Universe and get to know thyself.

         Soldiers of Solitude, subduing the sorrow of your soul is simpler than suspected:

         Embrace your empathy to engage The Eternal. Commit to your calling to conquer the catatonia of this curse. Learn life's limitless lessons to become a curator of creation. Master your mind to metamorphize your madness into magic, and manifest a masterpiece. Disregard the dogma of detractors, and ignore the insolence of the ignorant. Betroth yourself to the blackness you behold so beautiful, and take solace in the song of silence. Converse confidently with yourself, there is no better company. When you're next summoned by the sadness of the Singular Sentience, sit with it, and speak the language of loneliness.