Neither one can penetrate in to the world of another nor can assimilate with its own. So long the individual exists there cannot be a union of the two. The coalition is just an adjustment to avoid fear of insecurity being lonely which at last breeds friction and suffering. Only in the death of the individual there is love which has unlimited space to include all.
The poem is about comprehension of beauty. While looking for an apt image, I came across this and learned about Wabi-sabi. I am a Wabi-sabist partially. Actually I had seen an image of an empty worn out wooden chair on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's celebrated novel One hundred years of solitude, although the theme was isolation and endless waiting there, I like that. I am fascinated by still lonely images in exotic interior spaces.
(Charu Gandhi. In response to the poem 'Just Another')
I have at last, after several months' experience, made up my mind that [New York] is a splendid deserta domed and steepled solitude, where the stranger is lonely in the midst of a million of his race.
(Mark Twain [Samuel Langhorne Clemens] (1835-1910), U.S. author. Daily Alta California (June 5, 1867). Mark Twain's Travels with Mr. Brown, ch. 25, eds. Franklin Walker and G. Ezra Dane, Knopf (1940).)
Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.
(Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), U.S. author. address recorded for the Nobel Prize Committee, Dec. 10, 1954, accepting the Nobel Prize for literature. Published in Carlos Baker, Hemingway: the Writer as Artist, ch. 13, third edition (1963).)
The twentieth-century artist who uses symbols is alienated because the system of symbols is a private one. After you have dealt with the symbols you are still private, you are still lonely, because you are not sure anyone will understand it except yourself. The ransom of privacy is that you are alone.
(Louise Bourgeois (b. 1911), U.S. sculptor. As quoted in Lives and Works, by Lynn F. Miller and Sally S. Swenson (1981).)