Alone Together

(Illustration by John Hersey)

(Illustration by John Hersey)

Staring at small screens. Staring at my computer. Reading books. Writing. My days are mostly made up of looking at things around a foot away from my eyes, often inside, and often distracting myself from the present state of things, only checking the news to see how high the number of coronavirus cases are rising.

Sometimes I’ll go for walks where I look at people, also walking, and attempt to smile, affirm where we both are and what we cannot do. I’ve been going for runs more, trying to burn off the anxious energy that builds up through the day of staring at my screen. And sometimes I’ll find a place to skateboard.

These are the things now that take up my daily existence in lockdown.

Sometimes I’ll talk to my dad, who lives next to me. Sometimes I’ll talk to his partner, Judi. But usually I’ll be inside, staring at something very close to my face the way the screen is close to yours right now as you read this.

The world, the immediate world, has become smaller. This has become more and more true over the years as we have expanded our communities and engagements onto the internet. Perhaps it’s only heightened by the lockdown, by the fact that we cannot be with others, that we cannot hold people we would like to hold, only miles away. This is an odd moment in history. Wrapped up with the feeling that we are together in something, yet completely distant, apart, fragmented in our homes. We cannot gather together, and enjoy something, anything, except for a passing hello on our runs and walks.

All these things I do throughout the day are good and fine. They help me pass the time with a sense of progress, as though I have done something worth my time in this mandatory solitude. But little can replace human contact.

Before this all began, I spent most of my days working in a small cafe, interacting with so many people that I never felt in want of anything when I got home. I would get back to the house, and want nothing more than the silence and peace in my room, or outside, as the sun went down. I felt like a pleasant simple person, content with just resting my feet.

But now, everything is lonely. Living almost entirely by myself, not devoid of human connection, but human contact, it would be a lie to say that all this is not making me more lonesome.

I am a very extroverted person. I love to talk, love to hear other people’s stories. And now I can only do so from a distance. I believe that, yes, this distancing is critical. It is the most important thing for all of us to be doing right now. But it would be a lie to say that it’s easy, sitting around at home. We have to do it to protect each other. Yes, this distancing is a communal act, but the physical reality is different. It’s hard to be almost entirely on your own. No place to go. Not even to shake someone’s hand.

I wonder, once this is all over, what this will do to our culture. Will we return, being more physical in our affections, hugging more, holding each other more? Or will we remain afraid, stuck at a safe distance, remembering what this virus did to shape our lives for months, perhaps years, as we were locked in solitude.

Obviously I am single. Perhaps it would be a different story if I had a partner right now. But the truth is is that I am alone. That loneliness, different from solitude, is hard to combat these days. And yes, we have to endure it so we can come back together someday. “Banding together (by staying apart).”

But the truth is, all this writing, texting, reading, online surfing, only sheds light on the physical solitude that we are experiencing. I’m sure I’ll find a new hope for it, like I did last night. For now though, I’m just welcoming the solitude.