‘I think it’s very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.’
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900); an Irish poet, playwright, novelist, and essayist known for his wit, flamboyant personality, and sharp social commentary.
Reflecting on my life now, I find it remarkable that even as a child in the 1960s, I often found myself immersed in solitude. This was because I was often left alone to fend for myself while attending elementary school in our remote rural village in Serian District as my parents toiled on our paddy farm in the jungle, several miles away.
Being alone at such a young age made me develop a strong sense of self-reliance. I had to learn the art of survival, how to entertain myself, explore my surroundings, and find solace in my own company. However, the great freedom also filled my mind with an endless stream of profound and puzzling thoughts about life.
I would contemplate why I was born into my particular family and not another. It fascinated me that I had no recollection of the very act of being born. These thoughts, far beyond what one might expect from a child, consumed my young mind. I yearned for answers that seemed elusive and intangible.
At times, I wondered why a child would even have such complex thoughts. Was it the solitude and the vastness of the jungle that allowed my mind to wander so freely? Or perhaps there was something innate within me, a curiosity and a desire to understand the mysteries of life that surpassed my tender age.
In my search for answers and meaning regarding my aloneness, I sought guidance from the adults in my life, hoping they would provide profound insights. However, their responses were far from what I had anticipated. Instead of engaging in serious conversations or offering wisdom, they dismissed my concerns with practical advice, urging me to focus on life’s essentials and learn to take care of myself.
Their dismissive attitudes might have stemmed from the difficult circumstances in which they found themselves. Living in remote rural areas without access to modern amenities, they faced daily struggles for survival. Their lives were characterised by constant challenges and hardships, leaving little room for contemplation or intellectual pursuits. In such an environment, existential questions and introspection might have seemed like luxuries they couldn’t afford.
The adults around me were likely preoccupied with meeting their immediate needs, such as finding food, shelter, and security for themselves and their families. Their priorities were shaped by the harsh realities of their circumstances, leaving little time or energy for introspection or delving into profound matters of the mind and spirit.
When I turned to kids my age, they either lacked interest or failed to grasp the depth of what I shared or asked. To exacerbate matters, I lacked the words and eloquence to make them understand. I was always alone, grappling with unanswerable and occasionally uncomfortable thoughts swirling within me. In that sense, I was truly isolated.
Yet, amid this indifference, there was a brief respite. There was one individual who understood the turmoil I was experiencing: Uncle Sulas, one of my mother’s cousins, who carried his private burden of loneliness. He shared profound insights that resonated with the depths of my soul.
“Listen,” he said in his melancholic voice, “I can pinch myself all day long, and my son won’t feel a thing. And when that boy of mine is sick, I can’t feel his pain either. We’re alone, even when we’re surrounded by a bunch of other folks.”
Desperate for solace, I wondered if I could simply brush these thoughts aside and join the mindless masses. However, Uncle Sulas, with his sympathetic eyes, gently shook his head.
“Nah, kid, it’s not that simple,” he confessed. “Even as I grow older, these thoughts continue to nag at me because I can’t share them with anyone else. You, my dear child, are my only confidant, and you’re just as lonely as I am.”
Curious and yearning for understanding, I asked Uncle Sulas how he had come to be this way, hoping he held some clever answers.
“You didn’t go to school. You never read anything,” I pointed out.
“I don’t think it has anything to do with book learning,” he replied. “For me, it just happened. I think about things that others don’t bother with. I feel lonely because I don’t dare to confide in other people.”
“Is it a curse, Uncle?” I questioned, contemplating the nature of his loneliness.
“I don’t know. Maybe it is, maybe not,” he pondered. “I simply wish that my mind would find moments of stillness so that I could rest. Too many questions, not enough answers.”
“It sounds like a curse, Uncle,” I remarked.
“Perhaps it is, boy. Perhaps it is! Oh, let me tell you something! When you grow up, pursue higher education… keep reading, engage with intelligent individuals; maybe you can find answers for both of us.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks, carving themselves deep into the fabric of my existence. I carried them around like a heavy burden, a constant reminder of the isolation that suffused every breath I took.
Time trudged on, dragging its weary feet, and one day my mother fell seriously ill. Powerless to ease her suffering, I could only watch from the sidelines, an observer of her pain. The longing to share her burdens, to shoulder them together, burned inside me but remained forever unfulfilled.
As I journeyed through the maze of life, I discovered that even the simplest actions were solitary endeavours. Walking, for instance, was a solo gig — you know, me propelling myself forward with my own two legs, like some kind of human island. And when hunger struck, I was the only one who could satisfy it. Feeding myself was an intimate act that no one else could perform on my behalf. I was always alone.
And each time I breathed it was my very own lungs that filled with life-giving air. Breathing was a solo performance, exclusively reserved for yours truly. In those moments, there was no denying it — I alone navigated the vast expanse of existence.
Even in the tender embrace of sleep, lying next to my beloved, it was my responsibility to choose between rest or restlessness, a burden that can’t be borne by anyone else. In those moments, wrapped in darkness, my aloneness became all too palpable.
In moments of sheer bliss, when joy coursed through my veins, it was a feeling that belonged to me and me alone. No one else could replicate that level of excitement. It was my celebration of life’s fleeting pleasures.
And when pain descended like a relentless storm, engulfing every fibre of my being, no one could bear its weight or ease its torment in my place. I stood there, all by myself, a lone soldier enduring the agony life threw my way.
Even love, that mystical emotion, followed the same rulebook. When I loved someone or something, it was a sentiment confined to the chambers of my heart. It was a personal connection that couldn’t be shared. Oh, how I wished I could spread that boundless love around, making hearts overflow with warmth. But alas, it remained a private experience, locked within the confines of my solitude.
In the grand tapestry of my existence, I came to realise that aloneness was an unwavering companion, holding my hand as I traversed life’s vast landscapes. It wasn’t about loneliness or some kind of curse; it was a profound realisation that I, as an individual, am inherently alone in my experiences, my emotions, and my journey.
I was born alone, and even if I had a twin brother or sister, I would have emerged alone into this world. I was jolted by the shock of leaving the warm, watery world that had been my home for nine months. With my first breath, I cried alone, a bewildered response to the sudden change in environment. It was a moment of profound solitude.
As I journey through life, I often reflect on this solitary beginning. I am aware that one day when the Creator calls, I will leave this world alone as well. No matter how many loved ones surround me, their presence cannot alter the fact that my departure will be an individual experience. They may accompany me to my final resting place, offering solace and support to one another, but the coffin will be mine alone. The act of being buried will be mine alone.
This realisation doesn’t diminish the importance of the connections I have forged with others all these years. I cherish the relationships I’ve cultivated, the bonds that have given depth and meaning to my existence. Yet, in the depths of my being, I recognise that despite the multitudes of people around me, I am ultimately alone.
We navigate the complexities of life individually, with our thoughts, emotions, and experiences. No matter how much we strive for connection and understanding, there are limits to how deeply we can truly know one another. In the end, we are confined to our minds and our perspectives.
This awareness of our inherent aloneness can be both daunting and liberating. It reminds me of the importance of self-discovery, self-reliance, and self-acceptance. It encourages me to embrace solitude as an opportunity for introspection and growth. And it reminds me to appreciate the fleeting moments of connection and companionship that punctuate the vast expanse of our journeys.
So, yes, I was born alone, and I will go alone. But it is in acknowledging and embracing this truth that I find the strength to navigate the beautiful and sometimes bewildering journey of life.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
