Facing it Alone

“No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent”
–John Donne

It’s starting to seem like it would be much easier to not care for one other.

Sometimes I have this vision, this fantasy, of leaving and not coming back, of never looking at another human being’s face ever again, of living out on a rock somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, growing old there, learning to love with no one but myself to understand. And disappoint. It’s strange, but I feel as though this would be in some ways a much more sincere life to live. In some ways, narcissism is very noble, very honest, very innocent—it is an admission: I am human, and I can only know myself.

Other human beings are so terrifying sometimes. At times, I sit across from a person, loving them dearly, caring for their humanity, adoring their soul, knowing their fears. But more often, I am placed in the middle of a crowd, surrounded by a bunch of goddamn fucking monsters, bombarded by loneliness, chocking on our evil, and realizing that, really, when I’m faced with the human population, the beauty I thought I saw before turns out to be a construct; an illusion, invented by a desperately sad mind. Because John Donne was wrong. We are islands entire to and of ourselves—every single one of us an island, pretending to be a continent only as a means of survival, pretending we’re in this together, because if we didn’t we’d have to accept the fact that in the end you’ve no one to count on—no one at all—but yourself.

Other human relationships sometimes feel like nothing more than a distraction, just static noise keeping you from hearing the truths that already live inside you. The human species is a social one, I understand this to be a fact; we are necessary to each other for evolution and progress. But the Lone Wolf is beautiful because she denies all of that. The Lone Wolf is a triumph over what is necessary, and what is honest. The Lone Wolf is an example of love overcoming convenience. Because the Lone Wolf submits to no pack; the only hierarchy she knows is the distance between herself and the moon. And howling in the dark. The Lone Wolf understands her world in a language that is entirely her own, never spoken, never tainted by outside air or outside control (because all human relationships are about control, when you get down to it). The Lone Wolf lives by her own terms, in her own words. No one to worry about but herself. And that moon of hers.

If you had no one but yourself to face, I think things would make a lot more sense. I think my world would be, if not more explicable, at least more reconcilable. I would live on my rock, just myself and that deep, blue, unknowable mass—which makes up over 70% of our planet and yet has been explored less than outer space—and I could finally be an island complete of myself. I could drop all pretenses and say to you all, “None of us can ever really know each other—not even a little. I love you only until it becomes inconvenient. From here on out, I face this thing alone.” I could turn my back on it all. I could turn it off, save myself before I went down with the rest of you.

Out there on my rock, in the middle of the Atlantic, I’d stare down into black sea with nothing but the moon to illuminate my night. I’d hear only the rhythm of the waves, every moment, of every day, always, as they wore me down, wore down my rock.

if I only had myself to face, I’d be leaving Virginia Woolf behind too. Her words could never comfort me again with their sureness—“Life stand still here”—and her rhythm  never make my heart beat harder—“What she loved; life; London; this moment of June”—I would be robbed of it all. All those things I have only been able to understand by seeing it in another person’s eyes as they faced me. I’d lose all of it. All that I have learned from you, from your hate, and your invented beauty, your temporary love. I would have no one but myself to face, only my own eyes—freakish, uncertain, severe—to see the world through.

With only myself to face, how could I know anything worth knowing? Out there on my rock, I would know peace—finally. Finally, I would be whole. I would know what it means to be entire. And promptly, I would throw myself off my rock, hoping I collide with a boulder on the way down, break my body beyond repair, end it all.