On occasion I am inclined to wonder if my self-imposed singularity benefit or dastardly loss. ‘Tis true I do miss enormously having someone readily available to share a bar of chocolate, or to scratch my peskily itching back in those annoyingly unreachable places that exist only when I am retire alone. But physical easement or a lack of dining partners is hardly a suitable reason for a choice of lifestyle, whatever the popular tropes might be inclined to suggest. Lifestyle should be far more important than a simple choice of relationship or sexual preference, mere reflexive matters in my opinion, one a cure for the occasional blues, both a means of alleviating a most irritating compulsion, both but illusory sensory perspectives.
I recall far quite clearly moments when if partnered I longed for singularity, most admittedly due to mine own inadequacies or inappropriate wants, the reverse are far more unobvious, perhaps no existent. My ideals are too obviously indulgent to be considered conducive, and so like some fanciful orchid I exist in solitary splendor.