The Sound of Silence

Sometimes I think about dying alone and no one noticing for a long time.

Living alone carries a peculiar fear. Not the fear of death itself, but the thought that I might die and no one would notice..

At my age, three things occupy my mind almost daily: my health, the reality of living completely alone, and the strange truth that—unsettling as that loneliness can be—I still have little to no desire to live with or even around anyone.

For decades, I’ve tried to understand that contradiction. I’ve read about people wired this way, hoping to uncover the source of  self-imposed solitude. The research never brings an answer.

Reaching out from time to time rarely helps either. Silence—or a quick reply that fades just as quickly—usually confirms what I already suspect: this quiet life inside my own thoughts may simply be how my story was meant to unfold.

I sometimes ask myself whether I was happier back when life included passions, work, and relationships.

There were moments—when a relationship was new—when life felt exciting, even joyful. But those moments never lasted forever. When they ended, the same question always returned: was the brief happiness worth the inevitable ending?

I’m not sure it was.

Logically, the fear of dying unnoticed shouldn’t matter. After all, I would already be gone.

But it matters anyway.

Perhaps because it would confirm the quiet truth of my life—that no one was checking the door, the phone, or wondering if I was still here.

It isn’t a legacy I’m proud of. In fact, it’s a little embarrassing.

How does someone live six decades and arrive at a place where no one would know if he disappeared?

Solitude may be a choice at first, but eventually it becomes a life.

Sometimes I wonder how many or even if, others are living this same quiet story.

Or am I the only one listening this closely to the sound of silence?