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“I am, yet none cares or knows”

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I Am Alone

I was reading a poem yesterday that caught my attention. Poems at times can relate heavily to my own experience in life. Especially this one that deals with loneliness and isolation; an experience that affected me when I left my religion of thirty years. See how this poem might relate to your own circumstances. 

In the silence of a forgotten room in an English asylum, a man once wrote, “I am—yet what I am none cares or knows.” The voice belonged to John Clare, a poet worn down by life, mental illness, and the slow unravelling of his world. Yet in that bleak space, he penned lines that still echo with tender power, especially to those today who sit in the long shadows of estrangement, displacement, and despair.

There is something sacred about such honesty. Clare's words come not from the polished pulpit or the safety of social acceptance, but from the deep, unvarnished truth of human vulnerability. He names what so many feel but cannot say: the crushing weight of being invisible.

I’ve met such souls. A mother weeping softly in a refugee camp, her children asleep beside her but her home a thousand miles away and burnt to ash. Siblings, mother, and son, once close, now divided by religious indoctrination that prize rules over relationship. A quiet woman sitting alone on a bench in a bustling Western city, the language around her foreign, the culture unfamiliar, the ache of belonging unbearable.

To all of these, Clare might simply say: I understand.

Yet the miracle of “I Am” is not only its sorrow—it’s the final turn of the soul. In his last lines, Clare reaches for something not of this world:

There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept.

This is not a theological claim. It is something more intimate. Clare is not arguing for God—he is resting in Him, reaching toward the One who knew him when no one else did. It is the voice of a child returning to the Father’s arms. And in that return, Clare finds what war, madness, and estrangement could never steal: peace.

What a quiet triumph that is.

We live in a world swollen with voices and noise yet strangely emptied of understanding. People are exiled not only by politics and geography but by emotional walls, invisible but high. How many walk among us, smiling on the outside while inwardly crying, “I am, yet none cares or knows”?

And yet, for all its despair, Clare’s poem holds out a hand. It offers solidarity with the forgotten, and more than that, it offers the hope of being seen. Not by the world, which can be fickle and cruel, but by God, who knows every thought and tear.

There is deep comfort here for those who suffer. For those cut off from their families by human doctrine. It speaks to those cast adrift by war, its separation and exile. To those who just don’t fit in. It affirms that we have a home in Him that cannot be taken. For the foreigner, for the forgotten, for the emotionally broken; Clare’s cry becomes a prayer, and his prayer becomes a promise.

That though we may feel lost, we are never beyond the reach of our Creator.

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept.

Sleep, not in despair, but in trust. In the arms of the One who saw Clare in his cell—and sees us still.

I Am—Yet Not Alone: John Clare : https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43948/i-am

"One wants to be loved, failing that, admired… 

One wants to inspire some sort of sentiment. 

The soul recoils from a void and desires contact at any price."

Hjalmar Söderberg — Doctor Glas

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The Invisibility of Seasonal Loneliness 

“A friend loves at all times.” 

—Proverbs 17:17

For many, this time of year carries the ache of loneliness, a feeling amplified by the festive cheer around us. Memories of isolation often linger, living quietly in the recesses of our minds, surfacing when we least expect them.

I remember one such time vividly. It was Christmas Eve, many years ago, during my youth. I had friends, but I was in a season of transition. The friendships I once cherished no longer resonated, leaving me feeling adrift. In search of solace—or perhaps just a distraction—I ventured into Glasgow city centre. The bustling streets, alive with shoppers and laughter, seemed to mock my solitude. There was no logic to my actions; if anything, being among the crowds only deepened my sense of emptiness.

Eventually, I wandered into a coffee shop. I was shy, and though I longed for someone to strike up a conversation, no one did. The chatter of patrons and clinking of cups became a background hum to my thoughts. Then, someone played a song on the jukebox: Chicago's "If You Leave Me Now." Even after all these years, every time I hear that song, it transports me back to that painful Christmas Eve—a moment etched in time, a snapshot of my loneliness.

Yet, that experience was not without purpose. It taught me empathy—a deep, abiding compassion for the lost souls who, like I once did, walk through life feeling unseen and unheard. Loneliness is a quiet scourge in today’s society, often hidden behind smiles or busy routines.

This memory fuels my resolve to reach out. I’ve learned the transformative power of a simple “hello,” a kind word, or a thoughtful question. Even now, despite my age, I often stop to talk with young people. They, too, crave connection, and it’s moving to see their faces light up when you ask about their studies or their interests. It’s a reminder that no one is immune to the need for love and affirmation. We all carry stories—stories like mine, stories of quiet battles fought in the heart.

And today, many of those stories will be written. Somewhere, someone is feeling what I felt that Christmas Eve. Why not be the one to reach out? To smile, to start a conversation, to show someone they are not invisible? Let’s step into the lives of others, even if only for a moment, and remind them—and ourselves—of the healing power of human connection.

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The first time I felt the concept of Kâmtéa  was back when I was twelve years old. I spent the summer on The Island of Bute, we had a cabin on Bogany Farm. There were around sixty cabins, and families would visit on two-week vacations.

The year in question I met new friends whom we shared many hours with. We made a tree swing in the woods, and we would talk for hours on end. Bonds would form, but when you are twelve years old, such bonds are so easily broken when we are under the authority of our guardians.

You see, my friends would have to return home, and I would be left as lonely as an empty pocket with only the moon and stars for company.

The song, Cottonfields by Creedence Clearwater Revival played frequently on the radio that year and every time I hear it now, I still feel that sense of Kâmtéa welling up.

Kâmtéa in the Khmer language captures a deep emotional state, often associated with sadness, mourning, or the experience of loss.