I grew up in the wide open spaces of a farm in the middle of Vereeniging in South Africa. The animals and my imagination were my friends. The wind and dust my companions.
I grew up solitary and alone for the most part.
I learnt to amuse and occupy myself. I used the gifts I was born with and crafted entire worlds around my existence, where I was always the hero. I learnt to be alone.
Which is not an easy thing to one who is a vociferous extrovert. At the time I had no idea what introvert or extrovert meant. I didn’t have enough human contact to be educated in the matter.
I was simply alone – so I learnt to be alone.
That skill has served me well over the years.
Now, older and wiser and way more careful with my heart and affections, I find myself spending allot of time alone.
Tonight, at the tail end of a traumatic week, I wondered – when does a life becomes too solitary?
When does the silence of no answer start to chafe a bit too vigorously?
In a normal day, I will spend 9 hours in the company of colleagues. Talking all the nonsense and business that makes up a working life.
Coming home – I will spend 9 hours sleeping. I do love my sleep. Or is it rather that I hate the silence more.
6 plus hours, barring the odd outing, I spend in my own company.
The radio is always on. The animals become white noise. My thoughts, which are more often than not at odds with me, my company and my companion.
I think my life has become too solitary. And I do not know how to change it.