I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by noise.
The yelling of my mother. The construction sites. The tequila bar with the band playing too loud. The women—God, the women—with their constant, low-level hum of needs, demands, and “can we talk?”
I used noise like spackle. I used it to fill the cracks. If there was silence, I’d find a problem to solve, a woman to chase, a drink to pour, just to keep the quiet from getting too loud.
But now? The house is empty. The “Poly” girl is gone. The “Forever” ex is blocked. The job is winding down.
And it’s Friday night. And nothing is happening.
At first, it feels like panic. You check your phone. You check it again. You think about going to the bar, just to hear voices. You think about swiping on the apps, just to see a face. It’s the withdrawal symptom of a man addicted to chaos.
But then, you pour a drink. You light a cigar. You sit on the porch in the Tucson heat.
And you wait.
And the panic starts to fade. The silence stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like… room. Room to breathe. Room to think. Room to just exist without performing for an audience.
This isn’t loneliness. Loneliness is wanting someone else to be there.
This is Solitude.
Solitude is the realization that the person in the chair is actually good company. It’s the understanding that you don’t need a distraction to be okay.
I’m sitting here, watching the smoke curl into the night air, and I realize: I like this.
I like not having to ask anyone what they want for dinner. I like not having to explain why I’m staring at the wall. I like the profound, heavy, beautiful weight of my own presence.
The loudest sound in the world isn’t a scream or a siren. It’s the sound of a man who has finally stopped running, sitting alone in a room, and realizing he doesn’t need to leave.
I’m learning to sit still. I’m learning to be the only person in the room.
And for the first time in fifty-seven years, I’m not looking for the exit. I’m just enjoying the view.
