The Empty Places

For most of my life I have been alone. I don't expect this to change. Loneliness is, at it's core, what do; what I am. There is an inherent loneliness in reading, in thinking and writing. I have always wanted to be alone. I suppose that comes from always living in a madhouse, overflowing with people and animals---we have a family of nine and at one point fourteen dogs. I remember sitting in a closest for hours, alone with my thoughts. Of reading Joules Verne late at night when everyone else was asleep. Of taking long, long walks to god-only-knows where till the sun falls far bellow the mountains on the horizon; something I still do. I remember craving silence, solitude, a place to think, more than anything in the world. A place devoid of all the noise and rushing about of life. A place empty of all but myself. I longed for a place that was mine. I longed for loneliness.I still do. Though now to much different extent than before. I've come to know that I need people as much as or even more than I needed solitude. I now know that people, however annoying and strange and loud they may be, are what I do. I write about people. People from all walks of life. From All creeds and thoughts and beliefs. I write about everything they do, everything they think and feel and wish to become. What I do is people. Without them the work is slow and flat and meaningless. I have to be among people---not when I write, that is an intensely personnel thing between me and my children---to know their mannerisms, their way of speaking, the way they look and act, the way they feel and don't feel, the way their eyes twitch when they're angry. I also need them (now pay close attention to this point, kids. It's very important) to read the things I write about people. And, in a way, I love people. Otherwise, why the hell would I be doing all this in the first place?


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