From The Diary Of Aron Banton.
Loneliness… It seems that I cannot avoid this topic, surely… I suppose this term, ‘loneliness’, is given too much attention.
Posters, support groups for singles, and I’m not talking about various social networks and television, where the topic of loneliness is discussed almost every hour.
Honestly, it just won’t let go of me that all these inane discourses on all sorts of broadcast channels are just sketchy, shallow generalizations of loneliness; the tip of an iceberg, if you wish. And with an excess of romanticizing.
But what does the real loneliness mean?
It’s not about this temporary feeling they love to talk about, which is caused by a betrayal, a loss, or by simple diffidence; that’s not real. Surely the betrayed one will finally let his grievance go and will be able to open up to other people. The same will happen to the person who has lost someone. And it’s even easier for those hesitating to take the first step towards people and thus viewing themselves as lonely because someday a completely unusual person will enter their life to destroy all of their barriers and restrictions.
Nevertheless, what should those who have chosen loneliness voluntarily, though not quite consciously, do?
Having succumbed to their ambitions and insane cravings, people cannot understand right away what price is exacted for that. But the time to pay up always comes… One of these dreamers will wake up old and wistful, understanding that his life was spent in blind pursuit of desires. Someone will wake up in a hospital bed, because in this marathon of life crossed the line of his physical capabilities. Yet another one, just like me, who has not yet lost all his strength, will realize that each return home means coming to a quite beautiful, but empty, forgotten, and desolate place.
One day this person will be awakened, and he will try to catch up on everything that he seems to have already missed: to improve his health, to work out a way of getting on with his relatives, to take up a new hobby, or to try to find a kindred spirit.
The reflections on the searching of my special soul mate have been occupying my mind for the past five years. At first, I denied everything and proved myself again and again that I didn’t need anyone. What a young proudling I used to be: I devoted myself to strange and sometimes very tedious hobbies so that to fill my inner void.
And over time I came to the idea that, in fact, I won’t be needed or fancied by anyone. After all, take a look at the real me. The me without all these digits on the bank account, expensive baubles, insubstantial status, and odd collections, in running mad after which I’ve been entering the human culture and knowledge, causing some trouble in between. Then I’m just a child in an already aging body. Just a child sitting before the window right now, lost in a revery and thinking about the transience of time…
And outside it’s raining again. Large drops glissade down the glass, somewhere below wind slightly sways the trees while they gradually begin to shed their yellowed leaves…
Ah, such moments make my love for autumn even stronger. It’s time, when nature prepares for winter sleep and drops its heavy panoply of leaves, as a tired wayfarer does when returns home. And for some time, there’s no understatement but only the unvarnished truth instead, only the unhasting stream of life.
At one time, more than 15 years ago, while on a business trip to Japan (unfortunately, or fortunately, I arrived there in autumn), I was introduced to their art of tea ceremonies. Magical by its nature, this ritual is all about attaining some harmony with the world around and conceiving time. And those days, when I was quite young, I still did not fully understand the meaning of this delicate attitude towards the traditions and the smooth, unhurried flow of time (although I must admit that I was absolutely enchanted by the process itself so since then I’ve started collecting ancient Raku ware and tea utensils. And I often try to use the latter in the ceremonies myself, though I rather prefer British tea culture).
Now I often muse about time as such. Does it really accelerate and scud just like in my youth or is it only my desire to scud with it so that I could reach maturity sooner? It’s hard to even say nowadays, and I can only speculate that it passes differently for each person, unrelated to him or his state of mind, but rather to his surrounding area, its rhythm, and the wish of the person to be subdued by this rhythm.
From The Diary Of Aaron Banton.