You Get So Alone At Times . . .
. . . that it just makes sense.
The line above is the title of a collection of poems Charles Bukowski published in 1986. It's a good line. One of those lines that somehow manages to say everything, yet reveal nothing.
This line has become my life over the past few weeks. Of course, I am not alone in any real sense of the word; I have God and my wife and my son and neighbors and friends and plenty of others. I interact joyfully with them all and am rarely lonely. Nevertheless, these relationships and their interactions are occasionally interspersed by deep pockets of aloneness.
And the dynamics of my undeniable un-aloneness in this world only begin to make sense from the depths of these solitary moments and the flashes of lightning they inspire.
The line above is the title of a collection of poems Charles Bukowski published in 1986. It's a good line. One of those lines that somehow manages to say everything, yet reveal nothing.
This line has become my life over the past few weeks. Of course, I am not alone in any real sense of the word; I have God and my wife and my son and neighbors and friends and plenty of others. I interact joyfully with them all and am rarely lonely. Nevertheless, these relationships and their interactions are occasionally interspersed by deep pockets of aloneness.
And the dynamics of my undeniable un-aloneness in this world only begin to make sense from the depths of these solitary moments and the flashes of lightning they inspire.
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