I get it. I understand the motivation. In fact, the quest for ideal isolation may be the only thing I truly comprehend. Everything else is distraction…maddening interference that gets in the way of achieving serenity. Not just achieving serenity, but even pursuing it. Sometimes, it is hard to differentiate between isolation and insulation, but the two are not the same. The objective of isolation is permanence—severing the connections between now and then—fully embracing then. Insulation is brief; a temporary reprieve, just long enough to stem the hemorrhaging of hope. Insulation is a two-week vacation to a remote island. Isolation is the permanent relocation to an uninhabited planet.
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Sitting in a black office chair, rocking back and forth, and listening intently to sounds emanating from somewhere deep within my body. The source of the noise may be artificial—my brain convincing itself that the sounds arise from blood cells slamming into the inner walls of arteries. But the sounds could be real. Evidence of tissues being torn by force from underlying strata. Repetitive thump, thump, thump noises might be coming through the skin, amplified by big, empty lungs. But the high-pitched voice of a little girl interrupts my analyses; a neighbor taking her granddaughter for a walk in front of my house on this lonely, almost-empty cul-de-sac. Evidence of inadequate insulation.
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I’ve reached deep inside myself, only to find more of the same emptiness. Not conducive to writing. Another planet, perhaps.
