When I was a child, I was deemed healthy. I lived at home with my parents and sister, got good grades, and lived what most would regard as a normal middle-class existence.
In high school, I believe I showed symptoms of depression. There was a period of time when I grew apart from my family and friends– this may have eventually led, at least in part, to my becoming schizophrenic.
In fact, I was always a fan of solitude.
But, where does one draw the line between solitude and isolation? What is the difference between being a child who liked to be alone, to daydream or read books, and a man in his thirties spending all day every day alone in an apartment writing music?
Degree, I suppose, is the difference.
That being said, I wanted to share a poem I wrote about my love of solitude:
A Poem By Thomas Park
Life goes by quickly
And there is much to do
Duties need attending to, and that is
At work, they knew his birthday,
Threw a party (Had soda, cake)
All was well, though
A sense of mystery
A shadow, perhaps a haze
No history, no libido
(Or that was muffled)
No sense of style
Khaki slacks, unironed
Pressed by the dryer
Brandless polo shirts
Of muted hues
Or perhaps it was
That Norman himself
Found certain things inconvenient
There’s too much truth in old stories
“Borrowing” Dad’s Car
Worse, Norman’s pivotal moment
Involved neither a parade nor award ceremony
It was the late 1970’s
Norman was curled in a ball,
In his pajamas
Near the heating duct
The family dachshund was by his side
The muffled sound of television
And parental voices
Were largely ignored, it was
A moment of blissful meditation
It was the best 5 minutes of Norman’s life