"Fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum
donec in te requiescat"
from The Confessions by St. Augustine of Hippo

I finally yielded to the boredom of the evening and the loneliness of the day, and so I decided to take another of my classic long drives.

I had spent the whole day at home today— or at least, close to home, since I spent it with my family. Following a noon mass and lunch at Amici in Makati (Spaghetti Pomodoro and Pizza al Funghi, of course), we visited my brother Joey at the crypt of Mt. Carmel Church; then promptly headed home. I was in my room by four o’clock. The rest of the afternoon was spent checking e-mail, reading Hemingway, and watching some television (Father of the Bride with Steve Martin was on Cinemax).

After an early dinner, I couldn’t stay still. My brother had gone out for a movie, my dad visited my grandmother (who, I heard, was having another of her melodramatic fits), and my mom, I presume, went for some window shopping. And so, to assuage my restlessness and utter lack of human presence, I decided to get into my car and drive, without any inkling as to where exactly I was going.

Where this joy of driving came from, I cannot quite remember; only that being in my trusty eight year old Honda CRV gave me a feeling of peace, security and control that sometimes escaped my often insane, if not lonely, everyday living. Bad days in law school would find me driving to Tagaytay, for example; and lovely afternoon dusks found me along Masterson Drive in Ateneo, in Loyola. There was a serene security behind the wheel which I could not find anywhere else— a feeling that I could go anywhere I wanted, simply by willing it. And, of course, my car was the perfect place to talk to myself without looking like an idiot. Sometimes, I even heard myself answering back.

Tonight, it was no different.

As though by sheer force of gravity, therefore, I was there again with my open window along the well-worn roads of the Ateneo, empty now on this day of remembering, doing my usual rounds through the ever-familiar grade school, high school and college buildings. Not satisfied with the journey, I turned back onto Katipunan, then Libis, and headed towards Makati.

I think it was somewhere between that stretch of Libis and Kalayaan, with Vienna Teng’s Eric’s Song on the radio, that a strange realization dawned on me: that I had become comfortable with being alone. Not that I did not want or enjoy company; but that on evenings such as this, when everyone seemed to be living their own lives, I had learned not to rely on the presence of people who were, inadvertently, absent, in order to fill my cob-webbed loneliness.

Not that this was easy; but that it was necessary. To expect anything more would just set me up for disappointment. And while I knew it was dangerous for one to be too comfortable with being alone (someone said that it is a sure-fire recipe for single-blessedness!), I have somehow learned— maybe, grudgingly— to be secure (or insecure) by myself. (After all, who was it that said that we are most ourselves when we are by ourselves?)

Make no mistake about it, though. Being alone (or being lonely— although the two are not exactly the same) is difficult, even wrenching, at times. But I think there is much wisdom in the following reassurance a friend texted me, just this evening: She said, “Do not resent the loneliness. Think of it as a place from where wonderful things could begin.”

And so, I drove into our driveway at about eight-thirty this evening, much earlier than I had expected, considering that none of my family had yet arrived home. I got out of the car and wondered whether any of them even had a clue about this strange diversion of mine, and why my gas tank was almost always empty only four days into the start of every week. I entered my room, and the usual silence greeted my arrival, and for a moment, I asked myself whether I would ever meet anyone who would be crazy enough to know my loneliness, or perhaps even brave enough to attempt to fill it; someone who would, in fact, make my old trusty CRV superfluous, because I was no longer alone. The question lingered a moment in my mind, then I was reminded: you’ll be sleeping alone tonight, as all of us will, no doubt. We all sleep alone.

In the comfort of this alone-ness, therefore, I embrace the loneliness. It makes the waiting even more meaningful, I think; and the finding— a surprise all the more magical.

I can’t wait!

[Thanks, Stuckie. You saved me tonight. Though I know I can be such an insane dork sometimes, you love me nonetheless.]