There’s a lot of talk about Americans being lonely these days. From Hillary Clinton to NPR to Harvard a consensus has emerged that loneliness is now a major health concern. I do not scoff at this. But as a blind person who’s been disabled from childhood, I have some qualms. I’ve experienced acute periods of loneliness throughout my life. To paraphrase Simon and Garfunkel he’s “my old friend” and I learned long ago he’s sometimes my only friend.
In the old days I didn’t know how to be with people. Sure there was all that “not fitting in” known to the poor and cripples—but now I see biographical detail has nothing to do with it. I am deliciously lonely. I’ve wept in foreign churches, swum in the Aegean in winter when only fishermen are about; stood on my hands where Finland meets Sweden touching two lonesome places at once. I’ve walked in a monastery, was found by a priest who carried a candle.
Sartre said: “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.”
Planet of the Blind 