Impossibly Alone

Ralph Ellison wrote a story in 1952 about an African American man with no name.

Of course he had one, but we quickly realize that in a whirlpool of rejection and blame, a society had completely forgotten how to use it. He inevitably becomes the title of the book itself - 'The Invisible Man'.

But invisible, in this case, is a bit of a misnomer. The very definition implies an absence of sight, or at the very least, to be overlooked; but the Invisible Man is both seen and spoken to, gauged and gawked. He holds down careers, attends social functions and attracts both wanted and wanton attention. Yet, he is seen by the reader as translucent, almost ghost like figure - an Invisible Man in plain sight.

Simultaneously present and absent, known and unknown.

He is left alone in a world that knows he is there. This seems at first to be a paradox, for real fear seems more crippling when loneliness tethers itself to unawareness. People listen to him, but he feels unheard. People hold him, yet he feels untouched. People love him, but he feels alone.

When you are truly alone, in every sense of the word, you stand a better chance of being saved. An outcast may attract help from an observer or, in the absence of others, find something within to act as a tool which may help to pull that person up by his own bootstraps. This is not to downplay the suffering that one can feel in being truly alone; but rather to spotlight the absence of help for one who feels that way in a crowd that would never know otherwise - a crowd or smiling faces that follows your invisible frown. Impossibly invisible.

I never knew I felt impossibly invisible until I was alone.

I have to quell the urge to say I was a prisoner in my own body: that's not true. If I really want to stretch such an epithet, I must re-mould the sinister image of incarceration by throwing in fluffy decor, wooden beams, polite and helpful guards and meal trolleys with sufficiently lubricated wheels - or what I like to imagine most Scandinavian rehabilitation centers looks like.

Everyone was nice to me, I could smile and laugh freely and they even let me captain the cell block handball team! But I still felt trapped. I felt that all the happiness in my life (which thankfully was a lot), had been garnered by others and gifted to me in nice little, individually wrapped boxes. I attracted happiness and regifted it to others; passing them off as my own creations. Happiness can sometimes look the same, so it's near impossible to tell the difference - but I knew.

I knew it wasn't my happiness because I had watched my Happiness Factory slowly close down. At first a few workers went on strike, and then the union got involved. Finally, i stopped paying them and one day they just weren't there anymore - strange right? You might be wondering what the going currency was for a worker of my Happiness Factory? You might be also surprised to learn that it's a common coin that's globally traded and one that's in constant circulation, yet still manages to maintains it's wealth and appeal.

Attention.

My banks were out the greenbacks, the Exchequer quit in a huff and the Federal Reserve bolted the doors - I was broke.

I stopped paying attention.

I started to borrow attention from others, passing it off as my own. This of course doesn't work. Borrowing attention enlists the same interest rates that the Dollar, Pound or Yen does when 'given' to a client. Eventually I had to start paying back the attention that I had borrowed and thankfully those generous donors accepted my insecurities as legal tender. Phew. Problem solved. Out of a fix.

Not quite. Heard of inflation?

There were too many insecurities in circulation and the currency became useless, utterly worthless. It fared no better than the paper notes or Zimbabwe or the post-war Hungary of the past. People who thought that insecurities were a viable stand-in for happiness had quickly reneged on every deal - I was back to broke, but worse than that, I still looked rich. A poor man in an emotionally rich man's clothing. What a facade. What a bloody lie.

Which brings me to lying. That's the currency of the underworld. The kind of notes that Hades has stuffed into his big, greedy pockets, probably to help pay for Persephone's pomegranate addiction (no way they grow naturally in Hell, they must fetch a pretty penny!)

We all disown lying and we are very quick in showing others our empty wallets to prove that we aren't trading in it, but, a quick pocket knife to the mattress of those same few would no doubt reveal a hidden stash of that 'counterfeit commodity'. Some exchange lies with others, others just keep the lies to themselves, hoarding them in their own pulsating cupboards. I had a piggy-bank full of lies. Big ones, rare ones, ones with old presidents on one side and famous fibbers on the other. Lots and lots and lots of lies. Lies everywhere.

And so I met with the old general manager of my Happiness Factory. He looked warn, aged and void of all things happy. I put the piggy-bank of lies on the table and brought down a hammer on it's piggy-head. He weighed up the vast and tempting lies that spilled from the piggy-guts, then returned my gaze - his financial thirst was palpable.

"I... I can't do it. It's not right Sam, it's not bloody right!" He slammed his fist down, sending some lies flying off the table.

"Honest work for an honest wage! Just like Clinton said!"

"I don't think that was Clinton..." I interjected

"Who bloody cares! I won't take it" He fired back and stormed out with arms flailing all the way.

And so, the boards in the windows of the Happiness Factory would continue to cast darkness on the machines that once teemed with life.

There was just me, my uncashable insecurities and a wheelbarrow full of lies. But nobody noticed. See, I overturned the wheelbarrow and burried the rest, to retrieve later like a pirate unearthing his bounty - only mine wasn't precious. But like the pirate I was anchored. Held by chains below the opaque surface. I was buoyant to those on the shore - bereft to those on board..

I craved my own attention but could neither offer nor create it. It couldn't be laundered or traded, bought or brokered. All I wanted to do was file for bankruptcy and end this silly game of charades. I was poor. I could no longer forge the attention that was needed to fix the machines to make more happiness. I was rusty and sad. I was alone. How did this sneak past my welcome mat and under my door? It was impossible. I was impossible...

Impossibly alone.