When he was young he pulled the counterpane over his head and listened to the muffled sounds of the world. He liked it like that, muffled and distorted, but distant. He envisaged the shape he made from the outside, lumpy and irregular, but disguised. He carried this image of himself existing outside his own body, floating freely, listening and looking. His mother called it fly-on-the-wall-itis. He wished she did not watch him. He wished she did not know. How did she know?
Now that he is older, he has graspd the wisdom of other manifestations of singularity. Preferring one’s own company is frowned upon by others; generally, others who only feel alive in company. He frequents parks. He is neither lonely nor alone. He is simply by himself.
He doesn’t need to re-invent himself. He doesn’t need to talk. He thrives on listening, on watching, on thinking. And on writing.