“Let there be loneliness, for where there is loneliness, there is also love, and where there is suffering, there is also joy.” – Clark E. Moustakas, Loneliness
As regular readers of this column may know, I like to begin each edition with a story from my life that I hope encapsulates the theme of the book I am featuring. When I started thinking about writing a column on loneliness, I’d sit down in my reading chair at home to quiet my mind or I’d go for a walk in my pleasant neighborhood amidst the fresh spring air and budding trees and search my memory for times when I felt lonely. As I thought back through my life in search of times of loneliness, I found that I either had none or that I had many. That is, it seems that either I’ve never been lonely, or I’ve been lonely most of my life and, like a fish in water, never really knew it because I had nothing else with which to compare it.
I do know that I’ve never felt lonely when I’ve been alone at my house or in some natural setting, such as a beach, or when I’ve gone on solitary retreats to a remote Buddhist monastery in Nova Scotia, or when I’d spent a month holed up in a ramshackle, off-the grid cabin on the rugged and gloriously desolate northern coast of Maine, far from the madding crowd. If pressed to recall times when I may have felt lonelier than others, it would have to be when I’ve been among other people—eating alone in boisterous restaurants, sitting in a crowded park, even walking down the sidewalks of New York City. So, when the evil ones rolled out the COVID-19 psyop with the lockdowns that were intended to isolate and atomize each of us into individual silos of lonely self-abnegation, thinking we’d eventually hate ourselves enough to give up our individual sovereignty and well-being, I never felt compelled to comply with the jab mandates that followed so I could return to socializing again.
I enjoy my own company or the company of my girlfriend or of a few close friends more than large gatherings of any sort. I’ve always felt this way. The smaller the group the better; and even those occasions are quite rare for me. All during the most rabid phases of the COVID-19 psyop throughout 2020 and 2021, I never felt that I had to trade in my individual autonomy and jump on the jabfest bandwagon to feel a part of any cause or group that was more valuable and more important than what I already had—and what I’ve always had as long as I can remember: a sense of self-possession.
At the time when the government was trying to ban any sort of socializing, I met some new, lovely, like-minded friends, and we got together regularly at our homes—unflappable, unafraid, unjabbed. Living our lives. But not according to the “new normal,” that charade of social distancing that was trotted out to “stop the spread” but was actually just one more nail in the coffin of civilization. Not that. But the old normal. And not one of us ever got sick with what was supposedly going around like wildfire and killing scores of victims all around the world. I knew it was a lie and so did the rest of us. As for myself, no one was going to be able to push me around or twist my arm or hold out some paltry reward like a carrot on a stick for me to chase—such as free doughnuts—to give me something I never wanted in the first place, then or ever.
On top of that, I soon figured out what was really going on and it had nothing to do with a public health crisis. It was a military operation designed to control us. I smelled it like you can smell the rain before the storm. I’d once lived in China and twice visited the Soviet Union. I learned from firsthand experience something about how totalitarian governments operate. So perhaps I’d had a kind of head start in putting together what would turn out to be millions of pieces of this multi-dimensional puzzle—a puzzle whose purpose was to bamboozle and terrorize the credulous masses. What I saw in China and the U.S.S.R. I saw happening here in America in the March 2020 assault on our sacrosanct ways of life, saw the actual threat to our democracy—not the fake threat of the populist movement ballyhooed by the lamestream media the past several years—unfolding before my eyes. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And as I tried to warn others, I saw my social circle, already small, shrink.
In just a few lines from her hefty 1948 tome, The Origins of Totalitarianism, Hannah Arendt highlights the essence of what I saw happening with the COVID-19 psyop:
“Totalitarian government, like all tyrannies, certainly could not exist without destroying the public realm of life, that is, without destroying, by isolating men, their political capacities. But totalitarian domination as a form of government is new in that it is not content with this isolation and destroys private life as well. It bases itself on loneliness, on the experience of not belonging to the world at all, which is among the most radical and desperate experiences of man.”
This awareness has not made my life any easier from the spring of 2020 and right up to the present. I felt—and still feel—the pain of being shunned by many friends who’d allowed themselves to get caught up in the web of lies. I know others who, through their comments here on Substack or via personal emails, since I began writing about the COVID-19 psyop in the fall of 2021, were also shunned by others for not submitting to the diktats of the powers-that-should-not-be. What’s been particularly painful for them to experience—and for me to read about—is the shattering of familial bonds, which was also intended by the evil ones as a key component in their takedown of our culture. For instance, some of those who’ve contacted me are older parents who reluctantly submitted to the trickster jab crusade only because their children would not let them visit their grandchildren without their first getting inoculated. I find such ignorant cruelty utterly unfathomable.
While billions not only submitted to these heinous demands, for whatever their reasons, there are others who fully backed them. Many of us witnessed with helpless despair in our hearts people and organizations of considerable influence whip up angry, unhinged mobs coalescing around the jabfest at every turn—on television news, in newspapers, on TV talk shows, in governments at every level, and among the leaders of our nation’s corporations, schools, hospitals, and nonprofit organizations. You name it, the lies were everywhere. And hundreds of millions of people fell for them. By now, we’ve all heard the tired excuse: We didn’t know. I knew. As did so many others. Our pleas for sobriety fell on deaf ears just as they would a raging alcoholic deep in his cups.
What was driving this insanity? I think it was more than merely the fear of getting sick and dying. Stella Morabito, in a 2022 book of hers that I read around this time last year, The Weaponization of Loneliness: How Tyrants Stoke Our Fear of Isolation to Silence, Divide and Conquer, has this to say:
“It comes from a sense of alienation within the psyche of the individual who wants desperately to be a part of something. He wants to be part of an in-group, often associated with the slogan of being ‘on the right side of history,’ the group that will cure the supposed malady of social injustice. It’s a combination of alienation and the yearning to belong that is the true malady that sparks mob members into action.”
That’s what I think drove the madness, or at the very least fanned its flames.
Back in 1964, when I was 11 years old and Barbara Streisand crooned in the popular song “People” that “people who need people are the luckiest people in the world,” I remember thinking, no, they aren’t. Maybe the song was trying to sell something, to conjure up some beatific vision of dependency, allowing others to define us and bestow value to the self. Although I did not know that then, I was still having none of it. Or maybe my pre-pubescent, developing brain had indeed picked up what I now understand to be the song’s schmaltzy, sentimental, subliminal messaging: Those who don’t need people are the unluckiest people in the world and something must definitely be wrong with you.
Years later, I read Henry David Thoreau’s book, Walden. It was there that I found something that did resonate with my soul. He writes, “I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.” And I thought, yes, that’s it. These are the luckiest people in the world. And I’m happy that I can count myself among them. I’m not boasting. I’m not flattering myself. It’s merely the cloth out of which I am cut. Yet, I believe we can all learn how to savor solitude and find out why it’s important to deal with loneliness in a healthy manner.
Solitude and the sort of self-reliance and independent thought that Ralph Waldo Emerson writes about in his 1841 essay, “Self-Reliance,” nurture one another. Emerson writes:
“What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.”
Co-conspirators in breaking free from the suffocating Victorian conformity of their day, Thoreau and Emerson were chums. Just shy of his twenty-eighth birthday, Thoreau built himself a hut on the north shore of Walden Pond, a small (64.5 acres) and in a surprisingly deep (102 feet at its deepest) glacial “kettle hole” two miles south of Concord, Massachusetts, in the spring of 1845 on land that Emerson owned. Thoreau stayed there for two years. Emerson even paid Thoreau a visit from time to time. In the summer of 1847, a little more than two years after Thoreau first settled in at Walden Pond, Emerson invited him to stay with his wife and children, while Emerson himself went to Europe. Thoreau accepted the offer. In September 1847, he left his cabin and never returned. But he paid homage to his experience in a little gem of a book, which was published in 1854, whose popularity remains to this day. (Walden Pond is now a protected part of the Walden Pond State Reservation. There is a replica of Thoreau’s cabin on the grounds. The original site of the cabin is marked by a pile of stones.)\
Looking back through the years, I wonder if I came into the world unknowingly prepared for the COVID-19 psyop, as well as the myriad of social, political, media, military, and geoengineering ploys and exercises behind the structural decimation of Western civilization leading up to it, some of which I was aware of as they were happening, others of which I’ve only more recently learned about in hindsight, and some of which I’m still discovering. It’s not been a sudden baptism by fire for me; it’s been more like a slow burn, clearing away all the distractions that grow like weeds and have hidden the truth from all of us. No matter when or how these revelations have found me—or I have found them—in a mutual embrace, what I’ve seen I can no longer not see nor deny the unsettling conclusion that the material world is run by psychopaths.
Since one of the primary objectives of the COVID-19 psyop was to secure once and for all the isolation and atomization of each of us in order to compel us to submit to its evil diktats—the lockdowns, the closures, the masking, the jab mandates—to “stop the spread” so we could get back the life they took away from us, I was preternaturally immune to the real virus that was going around. And that virus is the fear of loneliness.
