Solitary Confinement

Bam! Smack! Kapow! Sunday I had no Internet. Smash my fingers and call me Stumpy. I was lost, temporarily bereft of distraction.

Yesterday morning my training partner went AWOL. Working out alone was solitary confinement at its worst, just me and the voices in my head. What a pity I know all their jokes.

We live behind bone walls, locked inside our own skulls, listening to our own running commentary on whatever we’re doing. And unless you’re in a monastery, you’re probably doing something. (If you’re in a monastery reading this, you should probably be doing something else.)

Twenty years ago it was no big deal to climb onto a rock in Campo and just sit. Either thinking or not thinking, it didn’t matter which. Now the only time I sit and think is when I’m stuck in traffic. You too?

“Contemplation” has become an invective associated with either an innie or an outie. I deplore this. Not that I’m rushing into a Transcendental Meditation retrospective, but there are occasions on which roses should be smelled. If it requires going offline, then do so.

I’ll try to remember all this when I work out alone again tomorrow.