I’m With You (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

Creative Response by Dora Hawk

The first rule to being alone is to talk to yourself. Incessantly.

It doesn’t really matter much what you say. No one will judge you ( unless, of course, you come across a rather judgmental self at which point may I suggest that you promptly cut all ties with yourself and find another human being to share your musings with, though  I rather fear that persons who find themselves in the unfortunate situation of having an undesirable self are not suited to a life of solitude.)

It is, I fear, not your day.

But ask yourself, have you ever had a day?

Is it really so crucial, so vital to your existence that you have a day?

Would you rather not have a grand old time living someone else’s day?

For other people’s days are comprised of so much more than just a cup of tea by the television or a bag of crisps during a snow storm. Other people, you may not have noticed, veer on the side of excitement and danger.Other people’s days are colourful forget-me-nots strewn across faraway countryside.

To be alone you need to spend entire days reliving other people’s days.

Days are filled with stories created by memories, possible only with the collaboration of other people. These are not environments conducive to the state of being alone.

Here, take these shoes; they are yours to keep.

Along these walls, other people’s stories are written. They are not chronological, they are not logical of any kind, they are not yours. And if they were, I doubt that logic is a familiar face around these parts. Memory rarely heeds timing and as for Conscience, why, the last I heard, that slattern had shacked up with Ethics and Morality in a run-down hostel on Easy St.

To be alone s to cast off disguises. Could you, when the clock strikes in the midnight hour, shed your masks, your glass slippers, your clothes or your name? Let us play musical skins, swapping skins until one of us is left unskinned. I have seen you prance around in the skin that time has tempered. This is not the suit you were born with. I am not fooled so easily, like the people who admire you from afar.  Somewhere along the way, you grew out of one skin and then another, gathering fragments of skins until you found enough to cover up all the fragile bits of yourself.

May I suggest taking up a name for this lovely new skin?

To be alone is to lose yourself in a sea of selves. To swim seamlessly under the ebb and flow of the tides. It is to wander the crowded halls of human history in complete invisibility. Perhaps, it is to fall from an open window without a single onlooker. I rather think, that being alone is to fall asleep amongst the hungry beasts without worry. For what greater gift does solitude bring if not safety?