The loner
The loner is the one who withdraws his presence so as not to distress or bother others, to let them live their illusion, because truth brings nothing but pain. The lover who steps aside to let the other live, the Oblomov who doesn’t even try to make things work because he knows they can’t. How absurd it would be for time to fall in love with a girl, or for death to write her a love poem.
The loner keeps to himself his laments and unspeakable sufferings, so as not to torment or temporarily upset the balance of the living.
The loner doesn’t disturb the daily life of others; he stays locked within his walls because making noise is useless and only brings more suffering and torment to others, who already have to weather the storms of life and hold together the deceptive pieces of the puzzle of the language of conscious and unconscious thought.
If the shy hikikomori cannot leave his room, the sorcerer might, having perfected the art of acting, yet he doesn’t torment travelers of his own will, and so remains sequestered, relentlessly continuing his endless Penelopean alchemy, waiting for the scythe to close a forbidden and pointless chapter in this earth’s history.
In this frantic and still empathy, the soul slowly decomposes, before the carcass does, and both will in the end be fed to the mud, as a final insult.