It's All About Me: What I Miss Most During Self-Isolation

3100 -- the estimated number of movies on Netflix Switzerland.

66 -- the exact number of podcasts I am subscribed to.

400 -- the conservatively estimated number of books in my bedroom.

There is a wealth of entertainment I get to enjoy. Currently -- and for the past four weeks -- living in self-isolation, I cannot reasonably argue that I am bored, yet my mind feels more restless and less fulfilled with each passing day. I still work full-time and yet I have been reading more (novels) than I have in years. Still, there are moments during the day when I experience a deep, frustrated, longing for something new.

I want input, but I don’t want to select it: because there is nothing spontaneous about any of it. There is nothing in my canon of cultural artefacts that doesn’t already have something to do with me. All of it will only be consumed by me based on my decision and, most frequently, based on my preferences.

Even when watching a movie that was not suggested to me based on an algorithm taking into account what I have seen and liked, I am still the one making the decision whether or not to watch it. I might choose a movie based on attributes I like (favorite actors, interesting premise, beautiful costumes), choices I want to make (know what Hitchcock is all about, be one of those people who appreciates silent movies), things I want to “get out of it” (I want to be in a good mood, I want to know more about the Great Depression). Every choice I make has something to do with me. Because I am the one making the choice.

I miss a life full of daily interactions, not because I thrive in conversations with strangers: that is not who I am. I get nervous when a neighbor approaches the elevator at the same time as me; I never know when to stop a conversation with the lady stocking the grocery store shelf; I dislike running into people I sort of know; yet I miss regular daily life because of its spontaneity.

Spontaneity means being confronted with inputs of any kind, without wanting to be. It means being exposed to opinions that differ from your own -- not because you seek them out, but because you are confronted with them unwantedly. It means broadening your mind, not because you want to to learn about something you don’t know, but because you are confronted with a version of reality you could never have imagined. It means having your guard down because you are not looking for things with which you disagree (as you might be watching a TV show ironically...). It means truly being surprised by human input.

A few days ago, I went running by the river. I passed a man wearing flip flops, black cargo pants, ending mid-calf, a silver and black Kimono, and a black fedora. There was nothing about this outfit that could have originated in my mind. This was a human who just existed as he does, out in the open. I just saw him, I was not called on to appreciate his outfit, to replicate it, to rethink my own sense of style. It was simply there -- not a task, not a call for action, nothing to do with me. He existed for himself, he did not exist for me. But I got to witness him, as he was, as himself, existing for himself.

This is what miss: witnessing humans being human in their own ways, for themselves.

A scene I could never have dreamed up: Market in Cambodia, 2013.