I love being alone. However, in the midst of enforced isolation, I now take less and less pleasure in it.
It makes sense. No one wants to do something just because they have to. Half the fun of being alone when you don’t have to be is knowing that you could be doing a million other things with a million other people, but choosing to spend that time with yourself. I’m still grateful to be in a position of relative freedom. I can do what I want when I like, and there’s nothing like that. I’ve discovered, though, that with an abundance of time comes mental pickiness. I could’ve read at least ten books in the time I’ve been sequestered on my own, but I’m finding it hard to get through even one. Friends of mine have said the same thing. Now that we have all this time, none of us wants to do the things we used to struggle to find time for. It’s as ridiculous as it is logical. These activities are no longer treats of stolen time we get to indulge in around the planned mundanities of life. The indulgent has become mundane.
What, then, is the antidote?
Well… for me, it’s been the things that, if life were normal, I would have to do. Writing, for example, is something I would and will do no matter what. I need to keep writing if I don’t want to wake up one day to find I’m suddenly terrible at it. But other things like searching for and doing jobs definitely keep me tethered to reality even though reality has changed. I may not always remember what day it is, but I make a point each day of being productive in big and small ways. Doing the dishes. Working on commission. Cleaning the cat-box and sweeping up after. Each activity is a peg that keeps the tent from blowing away.
What’s keeping you sane these days?