Frittering time away

It is a solitary time, and that is how it will be, for the rest of my life. It probably matters little where I choose to be. One does not realise what it is going to be like, before the inescapable fact and situation are upon one. Even when I enjoyed solitude and uninterrupted time, there was always a time frame attached to it, and once that time had elapsed, normal life resumed.

No more.

The sense of being alone is ever present. In some ways I have become accustomed to it, and would probably find it extremely difficult to adapt to life with another person. It does not mean that this solitariness, this aloneness, this isolation from others, is a desirable state.

I wander around, and that sense of being alone is always with me. My companion, as it were. Instead of the living, breathing, brilliant, funny, perplexing, irritating, interesting, challenging, provocative, argumentative, loving and loved person. Once breath has gone, once life has gone, so too do the other qualities fade, except in memory. Memory persists, but it too fades. I am reminded suddenly of Dali's painting The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory.


Being occupied and being organised helps, and fills the days, and I am getting more done. For some people, and evidently I am one of them, accepting the changes in life and doing those things necessary, is essential.  I wonder whether others realise this, or whether they simply think I am being compulsive.

I do the re-organising bit by bit. My wardrobes are full of clothes not worn for years, as I was too fat to get into them, or the fashions have changed so that they (and I) look peculiar. Now I am pulling them out of the wardrobes, and wondering whether to get new elastic put into the waistbands, or whether to make yet another trip to Vinnies. I examine the contents of the kitchen cupboards, and discard this, and then that. I know it is a continuous attempt to take control of my life. But who can ever achieve that?

I want to see people, and yet, a little is enough, or too much. Then I need to escape to my solitude, and brood a while. In fact, the brooding is like the musical ground bass, repetitive, but harmonious and endlessly fascinating because of the way it is intertwined with the melody, and the progression of time, and life. I cannot halt it. Maybe in time it will evaporate.