Solitude

            People have too many friends these days; they’re too well connected. Three hundred fifteen friends on some social media website and I only really know twenty. Some time ago, people had maybe five friends. If they were lucky, they’d get ten. It was only because they were constantly around these people that they actually got to know them.

Now, friends escape like a meal, somewhere beneath our esophagus muscles, landing inside the invisible and escaping as a pile of excrement removed of all we needed from them. We can smile when we’re with them, but do we honestly miss the conversations had and the drinks shared? Would their deaths matter a year after their funeral? Maybe, but only to become that quintessential depressed being that all these new friends want to understand and be close to.

I cannot wait to live on my own and be away from everyone who thinks they are close to me. I cannot wait to play board games with my alter egos, my favorite being the one who flips the cardboard square out of anger as if it was a table in a market. I cannot wait to delve into the drunken habits I wish to acquire and learn an accompaniment of different, new things all by myself. I want to learn on my own, secluded from public, secluded from Sartre’s Other.