Lately, I’ve spent enough time alone to hear the refrigerator thinking.

It’s a low hum at first, but if you sit quietly long enough, you start wondering if it’s judging your life choices.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember solitude being part of the plan. Growing up in a small town, there was always somebody around. Friends rode up on bicycles without warning. Neighbors appeared out of thin air. A trip to the grocery store took an extra thirty minutes because everybody knew your name, your parents, and probably what you got for Christmas.

Now, some days, the only thing that interrupts the silence is the ice maker dropping cubes like it’s trying to keep the conversation going.

I wouldn’t say I’m alone. That sounds depressing.

I prefer to think of myself as the founder, president, treasurer, and sole voting member of an extremely exclusive social club. Membership is limited to one. Meetings are held daily. Attendance is mandatory.

The benefits package includes unlimited control of the television remote, complete authority over the thermostat, and absolutely no one to help move furniture.

Truth be told, I spend a lot of time with one particular person these days: me.

He’s not bad company, most of the time. He laughs at my jokes, agrees with most of my opinions, and rarely argues unless we’re trying to decide where to eat. Then things can get ugly.

I’ve discovered there are entire conversations that can take place inside a single head. Sometimes I win the argument. Sometimes I don’t. Every now and then I walk into a room and forget why I went there, and somehow it’s still my fault.

The truth is, after you’ve spent enough time alone, you start finding creative ways to describe it.

Some people say they’re single.

Some people say they’re independent.

I’ve reached the point where I’m professionally unsupervised.

Nobody knows where I am. Nobody knows what I’m doing. Some days, I don’t know what I’m doing.

The other afternoon I found myself standing in the backyard holding a rake. I don’t own any trees. There weren’t any leaves on the ground. Apparently, I’d walked outside with a purpose and forgotten what it was halfway there. Since nobody was around to question me, I just stood there looking thoughtful.

One of the benefits of living alone is that nobody can tell the difference between deep contemplation and complete confusion.

I’ve also become my own emergency contact.

Think about that for a second.

Every doctor’s office wants an emergency contact.

“Who should we call if something happens to you?”

Well, according to my records, me.

Which feels less like a safety plan and more like a hostage negotiation.

“Sir, you’ve been in an accident.”

“I know. I’m right here.”

My social calendar has shrunk so much it’s no longer a circle.

It’s a dot.

A tiny little period at the end of a sentence.

There was a time when weekends filled up weeks in advance. Now I can look at next month’s calendar and see enough blank space to qualify as modern art.

I’ve become the CEO, CFO, and entire staff of this operation.

Every department reports directly to me.

Accounting thinks we’re spending too much money on snacks.

Maintenance keeps putting things off until tomorrow.

Human Resources has repeatedly warned me about talking to myself.

So far, no disciplinary action has been taken.

Then there’s my phone.

Remember when phones used to ring?

My battery lasts three days now.

Three days.

The thing spends most of its life sitting at one hundred percent because nobody calls.

The other day it rang unexpectedly and I nearly dropped it.

I stared at the screen thinking, “Well, that’s interesting. I forgot it could do that.”

Turned out to be a spam caller.

At this point, the people most interested in talking to me are trying to sell me an extended warranty on a vehicle I don’t even own anymore.

I’ve become so accustomed to solitude that I sometimes narrate things out loud.

Not because I need to.

Just because somebody should know what’s going on.

“Well, that can’t be good.”

“Forgot the keys again.”

“That noise definitely wasn’t expensive.”

It’s less conversation and more live commentary.

Like a nature documentary.

Here we see the aging male approaching the refrigerator for the fourth time in twenty minutes despite already knowing there is nothing new inside.

Still, there are moments when the silence grows large enough to fill a room.

Moments when I find myself talking to the dog, the television, or the moon. The dog ignores me, the television talks over me, and the moon listens without offering much advice.

Some evenings I sit on the porch and realize I’m more alone than a tumbleweed on a Tuesday.

No neighbors outside.

No kids riding bicycles.

No voices drifting across the street.

Just me and the mosquitoes.

The mosquitoes, by the way, remain remarkably loyal.

They never forget where I live.

And that’s when the silence starts doing what silence does best.

It starts telling stories.

About old friends.

About summer afternoons that seemed to last forever.

About baseball games, scraped knees, bicycle races, and front yards crowded with kids whose parents only vaguely knew where they were.

Back then, being alone was nearly impossible.

If your friends weren’t at your house, they were on their way to your house. If they weren’t there, they were at the park, the ball field, the swimming pool, or standing in front of a convenience store trying to decide how to spend fifty cents.

Funny how life works.

When we were kids, all we wanted was a little peace and quiet.

Now we’d settle for hearing bicycle tires skid to a stop in the driveway and a voice yelling,

“Hey! You coming outside or what?”

Maybe that’s why I’ve grown fond of the moon.

It’s been hanging around since those days.

It watched us race home before the streetlights came on. It listened to secrets we swore nobody would ever know. It watched friendships begin, first loves bloom, and summers disappear before we were ready to let them go.

And now, when the house is quiet and the refrigerator has finished judging me for the evening, the moon still shows up.

Patient as ever.

Listening.

Keeping secrets.

Reminding me that being alone isn’t always the same thing as being lonely.

Sometimes it’s just me, the night, and a thousand memories that refuse to go home.

One final note.

Before anybody starts worrying, I should point out that I am not actually alone.

I am simply observing a temporary condition that occasionally affects bipedal, carbon-based life forms who have accumulated more birthdays than they care to count.

Consider this an anthropological study.

A report from the field.

A cautionary tale.

Or perhaps just the ramblings of a guy who spends too much time arguing with himself and losing.

Either way, worry not, my fellow bipeds.

Everything is fine.

But if this essay happens to stir something in your double-chambered, blood-filled pumping device, feel free to send cookies.

Chocolate chip preferred.

For science.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time. 

© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press