I have dogs, and it's no secret that I find reptiles interesting

In the strange and luminous words of Nicolas Cage, the actor whose spirit burns with both mystery and intensity, we find a confession that is deeply human: “I have dogs, and it's no secret that I find reptiles interesting, but the thing about reptiles is that they really just wanna be left alone, and I understand them. It's, 'Don't pick me up, stop holding me, don't look at me, just leave me alone.' I have to admit, sometimes I feel like that.” At first glance, this may seem merely whimsical—a man comparing himself to lizards. But beneath the humor lies a profound truth about the nature of solitude, sensitivity, and the human longing for peace. Cage, in his peculiar poetry, reveals what many feel yet few admit: that there are times when the soul seeks withdrawal, when the heart cries not for company, but for quiet.

Nicolas Cage, a man of artistic extremes, has lived both in the glare of fame and in the shadows of introspection. He has been both idolized and misunderstood, living a life constantly under the gaze of others. His words come not from disdain for humanity, but from the exhaustion of exposure. To be seen at all times is to lose part of the self that exists only in silence. Thus, when he says he understands reptiles—creatures that hide beneath stones and bask alone in the sun—he speaks for the countless souls who find strength in solitude. The reptile, ancient and enduring, is a symbol of survival through stillness. It does not seek applause; it seeks only the warmth of existence itself.

There is a sacred wisdom in this comparison. Reptiles, by their nature, are patient and deliberate. They move only when necessary, conserving energy, avoiding confrontation, thriving in stillness. So too does the human spirit sometimes require retreat. The world praises noise, motion, and constant connection, yet forgets that true creation and clarity are born in quiet. Even the greatest minds—the prophets, poets, and thinkers—had their deserts. Moses withdrew to the mountain, Buddha sat beneath the tree, Christ walked into the wilderness. It is not a mark of weakness to say “leave me alone”; it is the sign of a soul seeking renewal.

Cage’s words remind us that solitude is not the same as loneliness. Loneliness is the ache of absence; solitude is the embrace of presence—of oneself, of the natural world, of the divine. To understand the reptile’s stillness is to understand the art of being without needing to be seen. In a world that constantly demands attention and performance, there is quiet heroism in simply being content to exist unseen, unbothered, and whole. The reptiles’ wisdom, as Cage perceives it, is the wisdom of boundaries: “Don’t pick me up. Don’t hold me. Don’t look at me.” These are not words of hostility, but of self-preservation—a declaration of the sacred right to one’s own space.

Consider Emily Dickinson, the reclusive poet who, like Cage’s reptiles, sought refuge from the gaze of the world. She wrote in solitude, her brilliance hidden behind closed doors, her companionship found in words rather than crowds. Her reclusion was not a retreat from life but a descent into its deepest truths. In her quiet Amherst home, she wrote, “The soul selects her own society—then—shuts the door.” Through that chosen stillness, she gave the world poetry that still sings today. Like Cage, Dickinson understood that to guard one’s inner world is not selfishness—it is survival.

This truth reaches beyond artists and thinkers; it belongs to every heart that has felt the need to turn inward. The longing to be left alone, at times, is the longing to reconnect with the self beneath the noise. It is a call to return to one’s natural rhythm, like a reptile basking in the sun after the storm. Even in relationships, in families, and in communities, every soul must have its private space to breathe. Without such spaces, our thoughts become restless, our hearts overburdened. Solitude, rightly embraced, restores balance.

The lesson, then, is both gentle and profound: learn to honor your need for stillness. Seek solitude not as an escape, but as nourishment. Step away from the endless chatter of the world, and like the reptile, bask in the quiet warmth of your own being. Understand that you are not made to perform endlessly; you are made to exist, to feel, to breathe in peace. There is no shame in saying, “leave me alone,” when the world grows too loud. In that silence, your spirit will find its strength again.

So remember this, O traveler through the noise of life: the wisdom of Nicolas Cage is the wisdom of the ancients cloaked in modern words. The soul, like the reptile, must sometimes retreat to heal. Let the world pass for a moment; let others seek the spotlight while you seek the still sun. For in that quiet, unseen place, you will find what the noise could never give you—the peace of simply being, and the freedom of knowing that solitude, far from being emptiness, is the deepest form of understanding.