There are at least four distinct kinds of alone.
I list them here in rough ascending order,
Worst to finest. First, there is the aloneness
Of being in prolonged close quarters
With someone you cannot bear and who
Cannot bear you, could be a cell mate, could
Be a spouse. Awful. A little better, although
Most purely lonely, is the aloneness of living in town,
Any kind of town really, village to megacity,
Where there are people in the middle distance
Going about their many lives, while you hole up
In isolation. That’s the classic manner of aloneness
Known as alienation. Very melancholy, of course,
But not so horrible as the first kind.
Third, there is the companionable alone,
The one you sometimes find in libraries,
Study areas, diners, and cafes. You’re surrounded
By mostly calm, contented, focused people,
Some chatting amiably, and you sense them
Like a cozy shawl around your shoulders, even
As it also relaxes you to know that none of them
Is likely to make any kind of demands of you.
This is the most productive genre of alone,
Often sought out by scholars and writers.
Last and best, when you can get it anymore,
Is the true alone, the quiet hour or afternoon,
Possibly a few days even, removed from all
Society, out of sight or sound of any ongoing
Human activity. This can be frightening when
Storms or predators are in the area, or when
You’re hurt, lost, or low on supplies, of course.
Then your ancient, social animal’s terror of being
Caught out and helpless after dark lingers
Around the edges. But in most cases, when
The weather is not deadly threatening and
You know your way down off the mountain,
Out of the woods, and back into society, this
Sort of alone is precious and is happiness,
The fragrant cedar smoke from your fire,
If you choose to keep one, or only the tang
Of autumn leaves and the circling visits of wind
Moving near and far through the trees, like
A god, you could say, if you weren’t too pleased
To be free from any other anthromorph today.
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