My brain, it feels like mush. My laptop is here, but it, too, seems to be functioning improperly. If I get home, when I get home, I’m going to have to ask my brothers to look at it, but my current guess is that the operating system is now too much for my puny, cheap as I could get computer. It keeps updating itself, and every time it updates, the computer is less and less responsive.

I asked the tow truck man to get me some water. I almost didn’t, because there is water from the tap, and it won’t kill me. I justified it to myself in the moment that he really wants to help, and I should find some way to accept his help. But in retrospect, I am feeling sad and lonely and wouldn’t mind seeing a familiar friendly face, and I asked for the water more for a chance to not be alone for a few moments. I suppose I could go talk to the motel owner, but I get more the impression that I make him uncomfortable. It’s not that I have anything to say; it is only that there is only so long you can go without even seeing another human being without it being distressing. And by seeing, I mean be in the physical presence of. The digital age, with all it’s wonders, cannot replace that.

I’m an introvert. I’m not afraid of being alone. Sometimes I am desperate to be alone. But in times of life crumbling rapidly into the surreal, being alone can be hard. Having other people around, even if just to share the experience, makes life seem less real and more concrete. It may not mean doing anything or needing anything. But it’s still a peculiarly strong sense of deprivation to go through unsettling things alone.

It’s not a matter of “can you.” Or of “needing assistance.” It’s just a question of wanting to feel like a human being, and the more isolated you feel, the more you feel ostracized from the entire human race and therefore inhuman.

 

And for me, this is barely writing. I feel like my faculties are strangely inhibited, and I can’t figure out why.

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