The Society of Solitude

You don’t find out what really hurts until the hurt does its thing and is past. Even in those aftertimes, the After-ness lasts and lasts, coloring each step, each breath, each thought. Hurt is that dark hound in the dark night in the dark times. The wolf may have his hour, but Hurt—Hurt trundles along, rickety wheel-turn after rickety wheel-turn through day and night, through sleep and awake times, never permitting deep sleep nor full consciousness, for that matter.

Hurt is the path it leaves behind. Hurt is everywhere nothing is. Hurt is a shadow cast from no principal. Impossible, yet undeniable.

As far as forces of nature go, Hurt Cheats.

Hurt is a dirty drug, one of those substances that brings no leisure nor entertainment value. Hurt finds Hurt and goes synergetic. Hurt piles on because it flares higher, burns brighter when arranged like charcoals in a barbecue pit.

A human becomes a a stencil cut-out and Hurt sprays around it. Such Silhouettes peel themselves off the walls and off the floors. They slog along, dripping paint like breadcrumbs drawing still others along to where the real party happens: Empty shells lacking depth playacting at being real and vital, taking blind stabs at genuineness and intimacy, all self-congratulatory for Living Full Lives.

Except that the pretty colored spin-art splattering the walls is neither art nor beauty, just orgiastic false-coruscation.

But the Hurt agree it’s evidence of the sublime, pretty colors to brighten a day and stave off the Hurting for even just a brief interval—respite where you can get it.


Fear is a fertile soil for germinating Hurt. Fear of Loneliness. Of Hurt. Of Solitude. Of Self. Of Awareness. Of Awakeness. Of Choice. Of Free Will. Of Risk. Of Being Wrong. Of Being Right. Of being Alive. Too Alive. Not Alive Enough. Of Being.

The Hurt scatter, climbing into their own shadows in wait for the next lodestone to appear, on which they clamor and claw, hoping for more than the sad Silhouette but too timid to just reach out for it for fear of—yeah, you got it—getting Hurt.

Sure it’s a bitch living with Fear. Living with Hurt. Living in Fear that we’ll each have to one day accept ourselves as Self-Mendicating bits of flotsam, there but for the grace of no one but our own self and our own accomplishments, our own accumulations of wisdom and ignoble acquisitiveness.

And we do it all Alone. And we do it in spite of and because of Fear. And Hurt.

Or we don’t and we die Alone. In Fear. Hurting.