Today, I’ve been thinking deeply about loneliness—how it manifests in my life and how it connects to two works of art that have been on my mind: Edvard Munch’s Self-Portrait Between the Clock and the Bed and Stephen Crane’s In the Desert. Both pieces feel like mirrors, reflecting back aspects of my emotional, social, and existential solitude. As I embrace middle age, I’m also confronting what feels like a midlife crisis, a sense of being caught between where I’ve been and where I’m going, uncertain of what lies ahead. It’s a strange, weighty feeling—as though time itself is pressing down, asking questions I’m not entirely ready to answer.
***
In the Desert
by Stephen Crane
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”
***
Munch’s clock, stark and unrelenting, feels like the pressure I’ve lived with—reminders of milestones I haven’t achieved or relationships that have failed to manifest into what I had hoped. Romantic relationships, especially, have been a source of pain. I’ve tried, but my lack of experience has left me feeling inadequate. Online dating was no better; it magnified my insecurities and left me overwhelmed. The pressure to present myself—to compress my entire being into a series of curated photos and clever quips—was exhausting. And so I stopped trying. Like the creature in Crane’s poem, I’ve had to confront the bitterness of this loneliness head-on. The creature’s words, “It is bitter, but I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart,” resonate deeply. My solitude is mine, and while it’s painful, it’s also an integral part of who I am. There’s a strange sense of ownership in it, like carrying a scar you’ve grown used to tracing with your fingertips.
The bed in Munch’s painting evokes rest, but it also symbolizes isolation. I’ve stepped away from the communities I once engaged with so actively. For years, I poured myself into social activities, organizing events, volunteering, and finding joy in shared moments. But over time, the effort became too much. My mental health demanded attention, and my priorities shifted. Now, I’ve whittled my world down to a few close friends who I connect with online and my brother, who remains my stalwart travel companion and confidant. These relationships anchor me, but there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ve retreated too far. I think about the spaces I used to fill, the people who may have noticed my absence for a while but then moved on. Crane’s image of the heart-eating creature feels apt here too—acknowledging the bitterness of isolation while accepting it as a necessary choice. It’s a choice I’ve made to protect myself, but it’s not without its lingering questions.
Munch’s self-portrait places him in a liminal space, caught between the clock and the bed. This image captures how I feel as I navigate midlife. I’m keenly aware of time’s passage—the years behind me and the uncertainty ahead. Divorce, being childless, and feeling adrift all contribute to this existential loneliness. It’s not just about being alone; it’s about grappling with the questions: What now? What's left? What's next? The midlife crisis looms large in this space, amplifying my feelings of stagnation and the search for purpose. I find myself looking backward almost as much as I look forward, trying to piece together where things shifted, where I could have taken a different path.
Despite its challenges, solitude has become a space for growth. Journaling helps me process these feelings and create meaning from them. Art, movies, and music have been vital companions, offering solace and insight. Sometimes a lyric will hit me in just the right way, or a painting will make me pause, and in those moments, I feel a little less alone. Munch’s resigned but reflective posture and Crane’s grim yet honest creature remind me that loneliness is not something to escape but something to understand. It’s part of being human, part of the journey. There’s a quiet dignity in facing it head-on, in letting it teach me about myself and my place in the world.
I want to continue exploring this state—not as a burden, but as an opportunity. My midlife feels like a crossroads, but perhaps it’s also a chance to redefine what matters, to uncover new paths, and to embrace the present moment fully. For now, I’ll keep journaling, reflecting, and searching for the meaning within my fortress of solitude. I’ll keep looking to the muses to guide me, to remind me that even in the bitterest moments, there is beauty to be found. And maybe, just maybe, that beauty is enough to sustain me as I navigate these as yet unwritten chapters of my story.