"Carrying the Cross of Solitude..."

“Is my life the bedrock of my life eroding beneath me?” : Jim Carrey (Bruce Almighty).

Dear Readers,

Three years. That’s how long it has been since I decided to cut off my life from the world. In the heart of a bustling city, where lives intertwine and stories unfold, I exist in a forgotten corner a small room that holds the echoes of my broken world. No contact with anyone. No family. No parties. No visiting places. It’s as if I’ve fallen off the face of this planet like I don’t exist anymore. This is my story a story of despair, of living off the grid, and of the unspoken struggles of bearing the weight of regret and loneliness. It’s a narrative that delves into the depths of isolation, searching for meaning amidst the shadows.

The room is dimly lit by the pale glow of a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, casting shadows that dance on the cracked walls. This is my world now four walls that echo with silence, a bed that creaks with the weight of loneliness, and a chair by the window that overlooks nothing but an alley filled with the ghosts of discarded moments. For three years, I’ve lived like this. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’ve existed, for life, as I once knew it, was packed away and sold to strangers along with everything else I owned.

There’s no contact with the outside world. No family to call or visit. No friends to laugh with or confide in. The phone that once buzzed with reminders of life now lies buried in a drawer, its screen cracked and its battery long dead. Parties are a distant memory, a flicker of light in a past where smiles were real and voices were warm. I haven’t stepped into a place of joy in years, and now, even the thought of it feels foreign.

Somewhere in the echoes of my past, I remember the words of someone who once remarked, “It looks like your parents brought you up not to party.” The irony of that statement twists in my mind like a knife. If only that person had said it when my parents were alive they could have heard it maybe even laughed at it. But they’re gone now their absence a void so vast it swallows everything. I can’t laugh at it, not anymore. But I remember when I used to sit near my elders they would often say never ever mock the dead. For it will be a price to pay for anyone who mocks the Dead.

Last night, I sat on the edge of my bed and inhaled deeply, my breath shaking under the weight of my thoughts. "How does it feel to be forgotten?" I whispered into the emptiness. No, that wasn’t it. The real question was, "How does it feel to not exist anymore?" Because that’s what this is. Not existence. Just a shadow of it.

The food, if it can be called that, is barely enough to keep me moving. I don’t care, though. Hunger is a companion now, as reliable as the creak of the floorboards under my feet. No more medications to keep up and my engine running well. There are no friends to check on me, no family to pull me back from the edge. No WhatsApp messages lighting up my screen with reminders of the world I’ve left behind. There’s no world left. Only this room, this prison, where I am both the jailer and the condemned.

At times, I fancy myself a hermit, exiled to some metaphorical Himalayas to ponder my mistakes. But this isn’t enlightenment. It isn’t peace. It’s punishment, self-imposed and suffocating. I decided long ago that this is my cross to bear, the weight of every regret and every wrong step I’ve taken. Each day is a march towards absolution, though I’m not sure if absolution will ever come.

I think of God often. Not with the fiery devotion of the devout, but with the quiet desperation of a man on the brink. I pray not for redemption, not even for a miracle. I pray for an end. For silence. For the release that only death can bring. "Take me away with You," I murmur into the dark, my voice breaking under the strain of years of sorrow.

It’s like that scene in Bruce Almighty that plays over and over in my head. “Is my life the bedrock of my life eroding beneath me?” Jim Carrey’s voice, half-comedic, half-tragic, resonates in my mind. The answer, I feel, is a resounding yes. The bedrock crumbled long ago, leaving nothing but quicksand to drag me under. And still, no one cares. No one notices, and no one also will ever know.

But maybe, I think, this is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe solitude is my penance, my sentence for the sins I carry on my back like a burden I can never put down. I’ve made mistakes, that much is certain. I’ve hurt people and disappointed others. Perhaps this is justice a life lived in shadows, unseen and unheard.

The chair by the window is my sanctuary, though the view is nothing to speak of. I sit there for hours, watching as the world goes on without me. People walk by, their faces blurred by the fogged-up glass. Cars honk in the distance. Somewhere, laughter rings out, faint and haunting. It reminds me of a world I no longer belong to.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, letting the sounds of the city wash over me. In those moments, I feel like a ghost, observing life but never touching it. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Crying feels pointless now, like trying to quench a fire that has already burned everything to ash.

The days bleed into nights, and the nights into days. Time is meaningless in this little room, where the clock ticks only to remind me that I’m still alive. Still breathing. Still existing. But barely.

And yet, some small, stubborn part of me holds on. A flicker of hope, buried so deep it’s almost invisible. Maybe it’s faith. Maybe it’s the part of me that believes, against all evidence to the contrary, that someone, somewhere, cares. That my prayers aren’t falling on deaf ears. That God, in His mysterious ways, is listening.

Until then, I will carry my cross. I will endure the silence and the solitude, the hunger and the pain. Because even in the darkest corners of my mind, I cling to the belief that this isn’t the end. That there is more to my story than this lonely room and the shadows that dance on its walls. Till we meet again I will listen to my favorite tune La Llorona sung by Carmen Goett.

Reflection

This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of many who live in the shadows, unseen and unheard. It’s a mirror reflecting the struggles of those who feel forgotten, who bear the weight of guilt and regret, and who long for a connection that seems forever out of reach.

The silence of this room echoes the silence of the soul when burdened with unspoken pain. It speaks to the human condition the need for understanding, the yearning for redemption, and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, will care.

In these moments of isolation, I’ve confronted the rawest parts of myself the regrets, the mistakes, the dreams left unfulfilled. And while it’s a heavy burden to carry, it’s also a reminder that even in the depths of despair, there is always a flicker of light. A reminder that no matter how alone we feel, we are never truly alone.

Jacob M