x.o.

Saturday, May 30th, 2020

20:20

Day xx of isolation.

— that’s how people would like to start, but it’s pointless to count. It only heightens the dread that has been creeping for so long; it draws in the realization of how many days you have spent with alcohol and dozens of packs of cigarettes, senseless and loveless. And you swear to God, the one you have renounced years ago, you have tried with utmost efforts to seal that realization away and bury it as deep as you can in order to survive, because once it resurfaces, you lost it all. So you know well how pointless it is to count the days of isolation.

But at least we are all going through a shared experience, right? We’re not alone in this per se. We’re together in isolation, in a sense. And due to the wonders of technology, we do still have means to connect with our loved ones no matter the distance. And they do feel the same way, because this is a collective experience.

... right?

Unless it is, in practice, not as simple.

20:37

And all these means of communication feel like a scam — it’s no substitute for a direct human interaction. It’s hollow. There is nothing to feel, to absorb, to breathe in. All you see is a bunch of words floating aimlessly, and if you’re lucky enough, a form that resembles a body. But it’s not a body — it’s a picture. Ceci n’est pas une pipe. It’s a treachery of images. And there’s no depth to it. You can’t touch the body, you can’t feel its warmth, you can’t read its energy... it’s nothing. Just a moving image. But they’re talking to you, sending you messages, and now you feel obligated to send back another bunch of words or to speak something to the image, not the person, while you’re still left lifeless on your own. And it’s draining, because you keep giving without receiving, you keep talking without interacting. How is it that you’re communicating but not connected, you wonder. What is the point when nothing comes out of it?

Even there is no spark in writing—the very thing deemed as divine, gallant, heartening—because it’s just another mediated means of communication. You want to get your point across, and you need people to read it more than ever. You want people to know what lurks in your mind in this isolated time and space, because you have run out of ways to interact with others, conveying your thoughts, because none of them is fulfilling enough. And this—writing—is just another pointless attempt to find a method to scrape any little sense of meaningful interaction.

Sure, writing was cathartic before isolation, because it was a nice form of escape from the noises of the people you encounter and the hustle of your mundane routines, to finally reconnect with your inner self. But what are we escaping from now? There is no routine. There are no people. All there is that you’re stranded with is yourself. And when writing is supposed to be an escape from others, why are you doing this when there is no “others” to escape from?

How are you going to escape yourself?

21:10

A dear friend of mine consoled me with a reassurance that “you will get used to it.” As nice as it sounds, it’s terrifying to think. Your life used to have sparks, your heart was filled with those you love, and your soul was alive because of the wonders of the universe you saw in others. And you saw the universe in the twinkles of the eyes of your loved ones, you sensed it when they gave you their heart in those warm conversations where they slowly recounted their memories to you, you let it unfold when they gradually fell into your open arms, and you felt it — the warmth, the atmosphere, the sorrow, the wonders... it was the universe in front of your eyes, when you were there with them.

But now you have to get used to this... blank space, by yourself. It’s just a plain black hole, swallowing you whole into a bottomless pit. You’re being sucked away from the universe, a place where your place had the most beautiful view among all the other stars and planets, where your existence was defined by the gravity pulls between you and the others, but somehow you still maintain your individuality. But now it’s all black with no other stars, and who are you, really, without those gravity pulls?

21:42

The one thing that universe asks from us is to accept the flow of life. All is one, one is all. We are all connected. To refuse the act of acceptance is to sever the connection. But when you’re all alone in a blank space, with whom are you really connected?

And I refuse to get used to this blank space. It’s not my place. It’s not where I want to be. It’s empty, it’s cold, it’s agonizing, it’s loveless.

And who am I without the love I have for others?

21:53

And my own voices are echoing in every corner of my room, as if the corners are talking back. But it’s just mimicking, as it has always been. This room is a mimic of the blank space.

And I don’t hate my room — it’s comfortable enough to sleep and to eat and to lie down at the edge of the bed staring at the ceilings. But I hate the imaginary cricket sounds. I hate the echo. I hate how big this is for one person. I hate that I’m trapped in here. And I hate the fact that I only talk to myself in this room, reminding me of how much I am deprived, and crave for, a genuine interaction.

22:02

And here we go again, I have to answer to my phone.