I have everything I could ever desire right here in my possession. Likewise, I have all the things necessary to keep me alive, and the sum total of both collections amounts to almost nothing. Life has become both simple and pure, with all attachments to the unreliable masses cut loose and left to drift far beyond my wake. I am basking in the glow of self-preservation and reaping the benefits of a routine whose survival is bent on creativity. My journey has positively become one of pleasure because its measure of happiness is never dependant upon mindless bits of leisurely interaction.
If I am in need of food, I grow or catch, or hunt and kill, and prepare it with my hands until it is ready to eat. If I am in need of water, I collect and purify it, removing all harmful contaminants until it is ready to drink. If I am in need of shelter, I manufacture it; building up strong, protective fortification until it is ready to inhabit. If I am in need of clothing, I weave it, using fibers or hides lent to me from things for which its purpose was the same. If I am dirty, I bathe. If I am tired, I sleep. If I am rested, I proceed. And if I am creative, I live.
Ah, but my friend you know me too well, and I know you. I have expressed the perpetuity of the physical, but what of the mental? What of this creativity? I believe that a body in motion tends to remain in motion, and a body at rest tends to remain at rest, but a body without a mind does not remain, whatsoever. Therefore, my interests are constantly peaked and my library is ever expanding. In this beautiful isolation my brain grows with each day’s challenge to remain.
If I am in need of a good book, I write words on the page until they tell a story and then I read it from the beginning as if I had never imagined them before. If I am in need of a good song, I sing, play, and sing again until a tune emerges with which I am satisfied, and then hum it as if I heard its melody somewhere else. If I am in need of art, I create it with clay, and mud, and paste from the trees, and ash from the fire until I can stand away and look upon it with a critical eye. If my mind has filled with dirt, I bathe. If my thoughts grow tired, I sleep. If my head is rested, I proceed. And if I am creative, I live.
To be clear, my transition to this way was not brought on by a desire to leave behind all things material. Nor was I looking to master an ancient way of living, connect with my ancestors, or Mother Earth, or God. Neither was the reason within me. I was not looking to become someone to be admired. I did not feel the need to be self-reliant due to my overuse of others’ resources. I was not trying to repair a broken self-trust. To that point, it was the opposite. I could trust, rely on, and admire no one. Each day I was attached to society, someone made a mistake, grave or minor, that proved to impact my being significantly. These mistakes affected my food, drink, home, clothing, books, music, and art. They diminished my cleanliness, my sleep, my ambition, and my creativity.
I resolved myself to dismiss everyone who made a mistake that had bearing on my person. Soon, politics faded, religion vanished, co-workers ceased to exist, friends disappeared, and family was left to congregate, minus one. Society, as I knew it, was becoming a distant memory and I embarked on my path without the weighty shackles of its foolish ways.
Ah, but my friend you know me too well, and I know you. Regardless of my successes as a solitary figure and my absolute satisfaction with this error free existence, something is wrong. Despite my physically and mentally healthy way of survival, my heart has grown weak at a very young age. In short, I am dying. The impact of those words, I fear, may be slight, as they require very few letters, but their meaning is massive. My bones, though not old and brittle, are weary and seemingly no longer need to be.
And I am writing to you because in all of my memories, as hard as I can think, and as far as I can remember, you have never made a mistake. You have never done me wrong; and my friend, as I grow weak, I miss you more and more. Right or wrong, your actions consistently provided me with goodness. As I pushed others away, the two of us eventually lost touch, and without any social or personal interaction I had no way of rediscovering you no matter how I tried. Yes, as I have demonstrated, life in my way became quite simple and pleasing, but as you are increasingly impossible to find, so has my heart’s capacity to pump become growingly difficult. As a result, my time grows short and therefore these thoughts must be presented in abbreviated prose.
Take the information I have provided herein and do with it what you will. My wish is that you illustrate the error of my ways on at least one, even if that one is you. And if you choose to keep this message only for yourself, please accept its words as my sincere apology for unknowingly shunning your light. Understand, as I once cut my ties and moved progressively away, proving each day that I could easily rely on my own mind and body, the road became smooth under my feet, but without you, the walk was shortened immeasurably. Even now, my body and mind are fit to continue, but without you my heart will not move my legs to take another step. So, I bid you farewell. Indeed, without you, my dear old friend, I have lived no life at all.
Sincerely,
A Man Without Love
