Reading Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception, and the incredible story of Ada Lovelace, there is a common thread, a universal existential theme of being ‘alone’. Although that might not necessarily and in all occasions equate to loneliness, being alone seems to be one of at least two, perhaps complimentary rather than opposing, forces that a human is constantly being pulled by. The first force is outward, to connect with everything and everyone; a desire driven by many motivations: survival instinct, seeking attention, control, proving worthiness, love, and so on. But if all these are stripped, one seems to remain: not to be alone, for reasons I’ve written about before. The second force, sought by a few, or many, is that inwards. This, however, is a force not driven by desire alone. It’s rather one defined in most part by the physical boundary of human existence, the contours of the human body within which a set of mostly chemical processes lead to one ultimate unavoidable conclusion. It’s a force hard to ignore, but it’s one that makes the difference, I believe, in understanding ‘aloneness’. Inner processes and experiences simply cannot be shared, no matter how strong the outward connecting force might be, or however many bridges we build (or burn!), we’re only ever crossing these alone, carrying with us those very individual processes and the conclusion they’re heading towards.
With these two forces, we journey through time and space, doing everything in our power to reconcile them, driven by a desire to break out of physical boundaries, or at least understand them.
But, within my own boundary, I often don’t even know whether, how, or why I want to reconcile these forces (if this is indeed possible). Being swayed in between seems to be the very aim. And in the process, I lose, love, hate, triumph, laugh, cry, rise, and fall, before it all happens again, repeats in a loop. In the process, my position in relation to outward connections is constantly questionsed, endlessly swayed between wanting to have a presence out there, to know what everyone else is doing – a curiosity, perhaps, or FOMO, a symptom of our time. On the other hard, there is a strong ‘want’ to establish and understand what I am on my own, what’s truly inside, the shape and colour and sound of my own existence. But, is this even possible? Is it possible to have such inner shape and colour and sound without the outward presence? Is it at all possible to know myself without a point of reference? (I’ve pondered on this in a previous blog).
They say: tell your truth, to yourself and others. As simple as such a task might seem to be, that ‘truth’ needs to be known before it’s told. Perhaps a better approach would be: embark on your inner journey, moment to moment, day to day. The world outside is but an element in this journey. And the world within, with it’s ever-changing and evolving processes, will continue to shape my truth. And when I am in a state of acceptance, I feel so much joy, not in establishing or understanding anything, but in marvelling at the ongoing mystery; my very own, special, and different mystery that I cannot, even if I wanted to, truly share with another. What I then remember (then forget!) is that I am alone, and that aloneness is where my treasure lies.
Have you found your treasure alone yet?
