This is Faith in Play #104: Loneliness, for July 2026.
Some credit must go to Hector Miraz’ Faith and Fandom IV: A New Book, the second chapter Sherlock.
The piece discussed loneliness, and I was out on the front deck writing in my literary journal when four-year-old granddaughter Rena tripped and fell on her face, and Mommy took her and her twin brother inside. Immediately I missed them, and started writing about that myself. It led my mind in many directions.
I vaguely recall long ago reading a short story about two men who made a bet, that the one could spend some period of many years in what was effectively solitary confinement, locked in a private but comfortable room with all his essential needs met and anything he wished to read, but no contact with any other human being during that time. As they approached the end of the time, both men regretted their bet–the one because he could see he would lose and no longer could afford to pay what was promised, the other because he had come to realize he did not want or need the money and so was going to choose to walk out just before the time ran out so he would lose.
I think I understood the one who had spent those years in confinement. I tend to think I would do reasonably well in such circumstances, as long as I could read and write–but of course, the question of being able to publish what I wrote would be an issue. But I’ve never been good at unstructured social situations–I can do classrooms, games, lectures, church services, any grouping where the roles are reasonably well defined, but not, in the main, parties or similar gatherings. I don’t do well in conversations with more than one other person–I never have. Were I isolated and alone, I wouldn’t feel it much, I think.
That’s probably good, because I’ve never had a lot of friends. I have a lot of interaction with people online, many of whom I would say were friends in as much of a sense as one could be separated by impossible distance and never meeting in person. That kind of relationship is controled–it passes through a sort of valve, such that each person can get as little or as much as he desires. I don’t know to what degree I would miss those interactions if they were gone, but that’s because I’ve grown accustomed to exclusion, being the kid no one likes, the last pick for the team, the one beaten up after school, the one who doesn’t need people because people never really liked him or treated him in a humane manner.
So maybe I’m fundamentally lonely and just used to it. And thus maybe I don’t understand people who need people (the luckiest people in the world, or so I’m told). Maybe I don’t understand loneliness because I live in it.
A college colleague of mine, when we were graduating, said we should meet at the east side, center gate. I’ve been passing on that message since, and I do intend to be there. I just don’t know that I’m looking forward to it as much as I would have thought. I don’t know that any of those people would miss me if I weren’t there. Someone has spoken of being alone and lonely in the middle of a crowd, and I have felt that many times. The welcome extended to me ends with the words printed on the doormat by the entry and the friendly greeting of the host who then turns his attention to his other guests. I’m not really part of the group; I’m just on the periphery. There are a lot of people here, but I am fundamentally alone.
Previous article: Quest.
Next article: Relationships.