Many people falsely equate being solitary, reclusive, cloistered, as being lonely, when in fact quite the opposite is often exactly the case. A long and involved active existence, produces a trove of memories, recollections, that produce constant reflections, broodings, considerations, reoccurring manifestations of events past, sometimes joyful but equally as often regrettably raw, so germane as to be but a moment away from actuality.
My average weekly human interface is perhaps four to six hours, a time spent in very general conversation, appending on matters presently relevant and more often than not historically gone and wholly unamendable. As beasts we are inclined to be chewers of the cud, constantly gnashing away at the same old happenstances in the hopes of some new and unexpected insight into the rights and wrongs of the past. Such occurrences are of course plainly impossible, what has been has been, and the results are as much a part of our present beings as any other piece of molding providence or serendipity.
Absurdly, being singular has cured my previous habit of talking aloud to someone or no one in particular. The pointlessness of this habit, exercise in futility, waste of good spital, having finally been recognized by my id and accepted. The one exception being cursing, which must be conducted voraciously, ringingly, or risk the complete failure of any purpose whatsoever. I favor older expletives, quite often blasphemous, having been taught at a very early age that the taking of the name of the Almighty. or religion in general in vain was particularly damning to the object of such villainous badinage.
Conversations with my phantoms, my ghostly apparitions, are therefore solely mental, which whilst avoiding questioning glances from overseers, means there is no actual filter to control the length or intensity of such debate. Arguments, deep philosophical discourses, casual chats, wrangling’s with my exes, yes I talk quite repetitively with old partners, they were after all particularly important to me as one moment in time, are therefore almost continuous, and surprisingly honest, I have learned that to hide ones own faults in make-believe conversations, as well as any of the disputant, is a decided invitation for doom to befall any wished for resolutions almost instantaneously.
Upon my walls I have large pictures, photographs, of my interrogators, framed with much love and admiration, so I may in times of confrontation to face my chosen intimates unmistakably. I have no doubt that they are ever inclined to judge me quite as frankly as I do they, such is the prolongation of even the most fractured inamorata.
My enclave, harem, body of superior intellects and advisors, are strangely kind and understanding of my many unfortunate failings and disreputable acts, are as a choir harmonious in their forgiveness, inclining to proffer just the slightest nod to the inherent nature of my unrepentant beast hood, whose unsavory manners may have smoothed just a tad, but may still if permitted cause a most diabolic snag in the finest of silken hosiery.
Perhaps retired, sequestered, removed from imminent design, but still capable, inclined towards impalpable enterprise.