I was born to be alone, and I always shall be; but now I want to

Host: The evening had grown quiet, the last of the day’s color bleeding out behind the dark line of the city skyline. The windows of the old apartment caught the light of passing cars, casting brief, trembling streaks of gold and red across the walls. Somewhere below, a lone street performer was playing a harmonica — a sad, wandering sound that seemed to drift upward into the room like a memory trying to find a place to rest.

Host: Jeeny sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a grey shawl, her hair falling loose over her shoulders. Her phone glowed dimly in her hand as she read aloud from the screen. Across from her, Jack leaned against the window, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling upward in slow, thoughtful spirals.

Jeeny: (softly) “Mary MacLane once wrote, ‘I was born to be alone, and I always shall be; but now I want to be.’”
(She looks up at him.) “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way loneliness turns from a wound into a kind of home.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Yeah. It’s not resignation — it’s recognition. She isn’t saying, I give up. She’s saying, I see myself clearly, and I accept it.”

Jeeny: “It sounds like surrender.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. But surrender’s not always defeat. Sometimes it’s the only honest way to live.”

Host: The room was half in shadow, half in the amber glow of a table lamp. The air smelled faintly of rain — the kind that had fallen earlier but hadn’t fully left. A cup of tea sat cooling beside Jeeny, untouched.

Jeeny: “You think some people are really born to be alone?”

Jack: “Born, maybe not. But built, eventually. Life shapes us like that — some through companionship, others through solitude. And some of us... through both, until we start mistaking one for the other.”

Jeeny: “She wasn’t afraid of it, though. You can tell. There’s pride in that sentence — and peace.”

Jack: “That’s the beauty of it. It’s not self-pity; it’s self-possession. To want solitude — to actually want it — that’s evolution.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe protection.”

Jack: (nodding) “That too. Maybe solitude is the armor you wear after the world teaches you how much love can hurt.”

Host: The harmonica’s tune shifted below — softer now, slower, dissolving into the hum of the city’s night machinery. Jeeny set her phone aside and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Jeeny: “You know, Mary MacLane was only nineteen when she wrote that. Nineteen — and she already understood herself that completely. It’s almost terrifying.”

Jack: “Youth has a way of seeing truth raw, before life polishes it with manners and delusion.”

Jeeny: “And yet, she sounds like she made peace with the very thing most people spend their lives trying to escape.”

Jack: “Loneliness?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The one thing people fill with anything they can — love, noise, distraction. But she… she just sat with it.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people mistake solitude for emptiness. But MacLane saw it as autonomy — the right to belong wholly to herself.”

Host: The wind brushed against the windows, a soft percussion to their words. The sound was low, continuous, like breathing.

Jeeny: “I envy her a little. That kind of self-awareness. The courage to stop seeking approval and just be.”

Jack: “It’s not courage that’s rare, Jeeny. It’s contentment. The kind that doesn’t depend on being seen.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think we all want to be seen? Even the solitary ones?”

Jack: “Sure. But some people realize being seen isn’t the same as being understood. And when you learn that difference, solitude stops feeling like punishment.”

Jeeny: “And starts feeling like sanctuary.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its light shivering briefly before settling. The hum of the city dimmed for a heartbeat, as if the world itself had paused to listen.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to be terrified of being alone. I’d do anything to fill the silence — music, conversations, even meaningless company. But now… I think I finally understand her.”

Jack: (curious) “How so?”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve learned that solitude isn’t absence — it’s space. The kind you need to grow into yourself. To stop performing and start existing.”

Jack: (smiling) “Sounds like you’ve been having long conversations with your own shadow.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Maybe. But shadows don’t interrupt.”

Jack: “No. They just listen.”

Host: The harmonica stopped. Silence expanded again — but this time it didn’t feel hollow. It felt full, like a held breath that didn’t need releasing.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what she meant by ‘but now I want to be.’ It’s not about isolation. It’s about choice. The moment you stop being afraid of aloneness, you reclaim it.”

Jack: “Yeah. You turn it from exile into freedom.”

Jeeny: “And that changes everything.”

Jack: “It does. Because solitude chosen is never loneliness — it’s sovereignty.”

Host: The sound of a distant train drifted through the night, its horn echoing like an old story retold. Jeeny turned her gaze to the window — the faint reflection of her face mixing with the city’s flickering lights.

Jeeny: “You think it’s possible to love others deeply and still belong only to yourself?”

Jack: “I think that’s the only way love lasts. If you can’t stand alone, you can’t really stand with anyone.”

Jeeny: “So solitude isn’t the opposite of love.”

Jack: “No. It’s the soil it grows from.”

Host: The rain returned, soft at first, then steadier — painting streaks across the glass, blurring everything outside into gentle abstraction.

Jeeny: (whispering) “I think Mary MacLane understood something the rest of us take decades to learn — that aloneness isn’t a void to escape, but a mirror to finally see yourself clearly.”

Jack: (quietly) “And the moment you stop fearing that reflection — you stop being lonely.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Host: The rain softened again, leaving a hushed, rhythmic tapping. The room glowed dimly in its own light, quiet and self-contained — a portrait of peaceful solitude.

And in that hush,
Mary MacLane’s words drifted like a soft vow through the air:

that to be alone is not a tragedy, but a truth;
that self-knowledge is not isolation, but intimacy;
and that there is a freedom —
a rare, radiant kind of peace —
in learning to want what you already are.

Host: Jeeny sipped her tea at last, the warmth touching her lips, her voice barely above a murmur.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe some of us aren’t born to be alone. Maybe we’re born to understand it.”

Jack: (looking out at the rain) “And in understanding it — we stop being afraid of it.”

Host: The night deepened,
the harmonica’s ghost lingering faintly in the air.

And as the world outside blurred into quiet light and shadow,
two souls sat together —
each whole, each separate,
and utterly at peace
in the beautiful solitude
of being alone — and wanting to be.