Not having to interact means not having to inhabit myself in any predetermined way, and in response the rest of the world expands to fill every sense. My body merges with that world. I can see and hear, feel and taste it, but it no longer represents me the way it must when there's someone else present whose body, in comparison, belongs to me infinitely less. That line need no longer be drawn.
- But - the inevitable in being alone is an excess of desire to communicate. I imagine conversations with people in the future, embellish ones I've had in the past. I write in conversation with myself in the present. I write for myself to read in the future. I take photographs with the intention of rediscovering an image, essentially saying to myself, "This, this thing is to be looked at."
That's on a good day, though. Sometimes my own presence is so abrasive the desire to escape it is as strong as the need for solitude. Sometimes stronger.