At times I distance myself from people. It is isolation. Not always apparent, measured in feet or miles, but emotional isolation, which is worse and much more real than any isolation created by measured distance. Perhaps it is worse because it can not so easily be remedied. This isolation cannot be solved by merely jumping on a bus or plane.

Isolation is solved in small true leaps. And only the isolated one can make these leaps. He can’t be pushed, pulled or pried. He must initiate the solution on his own volition, spurred by the sickness of separation. First he finds himself miserable, and if he becomes aware that he is miserable, he can then attempt to break his isolation with any means he knows how. The means is different for everyone, but for me it has always remained the same: a leap of honest vulnerability. It is a story or a quiet conversation. But if I shall take that risk and share something true with another person, without the intention for self-pity or acknowledgment, I find myself suddenly out of isolation, or at least on my way.

Knowing myself as being in isolation is a promise that one day isolation will be no more, but only if I’m willing to be honestly human again.

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