A Plea for a purely Individual Existence

Worldly attachment can work both ways. Sometimes, it can salvage a ruin and reverse a perfectly dull day with nostalgia and hopes of a bright future. Some days, it causes pain and makes me wonder why we forge friendships, and why family means ties. It is an insignificant speck, us, in this big replicable world, and all one can hope for is that when we emerge at the other end of this long and arduous tunnel, we rejoice on seeing the light — That we haven’t gotten used to the dark and that inertia isn’t a bad thing. It is very easy to be lost on this linear scale of emotions — One of the end sees red and means a dull bad mood, the other green end, a happy, almost ecstatic existence. And I’m tired of running on the scale. It’s a simple beam, not a see saw, and definitely not a cantilever, though I am inclined to believe that the red end is a fixed end in the wall and prancing on the green end will just flip me back hard enough to hit thyself against the wall and slide back slowly to the beam again. My question to myself then is whether such exhausting movement is self-inflicted or induced from the outside. Everyone isn’t different. We were either built to be self-sufficient beings and friendships, marriage, relationships is a shag or everything we do needs to have an outside element for it to proceed. Without people, we are probably empty, or without them, we could be limitless. Unfortunately, because a majority of the people around me, and I’d so dearly hope us, believe that humans feed on social contact, by an ugly disastrous self-perpetuating cycle, we’ve possibly burnt, diminished, abused and bit off the face of earth the possibility of individual existence.

I propose co-existence of individual persons who, like old friends, pick up from where they left in social groups, and there is no shunning of the other. Where being alone, and hence being happy is the norm, and being dependent, the exception. We don’t have to look down upon that either, but what a wonderful world it’d be if we’d celebrate everyday of being alone. If we could be like crazy rubber balls filled with jelly inside and malleable and mouldable in our own jumping self, regurgitating our own energy, like having such squeaky surfaces that we would reflect back waves of all lengths — Perfect Impermeability. Here’s looking at you, World.

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