"In Tenebris II" and Hospital Chaplaincy, Part 2
Isolation and Alienation
Harry McCormick, “Man Reading in Cafe”
When the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one born out of due time, who has no calling here.
Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their evenings all that is sweet;
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? …
Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
We’ve all felt alone. We’ve all been isolated, whether we like to admit it or not. I even wrote that in first-person plural—maybe to not feel so alone? “I have felt alone. I have been isolated.” And I don’t like to think about it.
I sit in a coffee shop alone, the hum of conversations around me a dull roar. I watch the people pass by, their faces etched with the simplicity of a shared understanding I can’t seem to grasp. It’s as if a veil separates me from the world, my vision clear but unwelcome.
I’ve tried to fit in, tried to mold my thoughts to theirs, but it’s like trying to force a river into a bottle. My mind flows in directions others can’t follow, sees shades they are blind to. It leaves me standing at the edge of their reality, peering into a landscape they refuse to acknowledge.
Isolation is my constant companion, a shadow that never leaves my side. I’ve learned to live with it, to find solace in the quiet spaces where my thoughts can roam free. Yet, there’s an ache, a longing for connection, for someone to look at the world through my eyes and see what I see.
I often question my place in this world, a world that thrives on conformity. Every day is a battle between my desire to be true to myself and the pressure to blend in. The dissonance is exhausting, a constant push and pull that leaves me weary.
I wonder if I’m wrong, if my perception is a flaw rather than a gift. But deep down, I believe it isn’t. My vision, though isolating, cuts through the fog of the ordinary. It scans for cracks in the facade, the beauty in the overlooked, the truth in the hidden. Still, the blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
I take a sip of my coffee, the bitter warmth grounding me. The world outside the window moves on, oblivious to my struggle—and I to each of theirs. I am a part of it yet apart from it, a solitary figure navigating a path only I can see.
In these moments of reflection, I find a strange kind of peace. My isolation is painful. It’s also a testament to my uniqueness. I realize that my place isn’t among the many but in the spaces between, in the quiet corners where my vision can flourish.
I stand up, clear the table of my saucer and cup, and walk to the plastic tub where I deposit them. Then, I’m out into the bustling street. The city’s heat swallows me, and I move with a newfound resolve. I might be alone in my perception, but it’s mine, and that makes all the difference.
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