PART 31

Who’s the loneliest person in the world? Or better yet… who is the most alone? These are (more than likely) two different things. Every man assumes there is a hidden part of him that desires to live in complete seclusion for his entire life. That he could “do it” if given the chance. He imagines that he could work his hands corse by fighting the rugged landscape around him. Tame a wolf to sit on the edge of his designated perimeter and train it to howl warnings at the sight of any large predators. Grow his beard long and build a pueblo of strong clay. Position the hard shelter beneath the shade of prehistoric pines that tower above him and protect him from wild storms in the night. Go into town once a year for supplies. Rope, seeds, blades, gun powder, books, medicine, paper, ink pens, boots. Take the journey slowly back to his secluded spot. Stop for hours at a time. Make sure no one or thing is following him. Find the tamed wolf waiting for him when he returns and slit its throat with his new knife. The animal had become too accustom to him. It made him known and common place. Everything the man wanted to never be again. Then… plant his fresh seeds in morning ground. The dew would make the soil soft. He would cover the seed with a small piece of fish like the Indians did in his childhood books. Stack the piles of novels and scientific manuals within the large hand built shelves that cover his shelter. Keep his gun powder dry beneath fur and hide. Heal his wounds with fresh plants and bandages. Scribble goodbye letters to no one with the black ink. And then… tie his new rope into a noose. Drape it over his doorway like a rosary. Close his eyes. Hear nothing. Wait.