Why I'd rather be a recluse

I'm not a teenager that no one understands. I'm not a reject. I don't have the sexual anxieties that would want to make me vent. I wasn't touched as a child. Not in that sense anyway. I'm not a goth. I'm not emo. I'm not really concious of myself. Basically I have none of the problems that I should, in order to shun the creed of man. Let me be direct. I do not shun the creed of man. In fact, I have sporadic bouts of affection for the likes of them. Nonetheless, I am severely disillusioned by daily life. By people, places and the routine that we call life. I cannot make the effort of conversation. Communication is a long lost sin. Talk is an overrate means of solving a dispute. Co-operation is nearly unneccessary. And I am a quasi-recluse. Absorbed by the likes of Hemmingway, Seth, Frost, Fitzgerald, Brown and other absurd men who have no relevance in my life or to this post. For a man so fond of people and their various perils, it is strange for me, believe it or not, to not pick up your calls, or text back, or meet you, or show the adequate amount of concern, but you musn't blame me, because I do not mean to resent you. And you could only blame me if I'd owe you. And I can never owe someone without resenting them in some kind or the other.
People I love are so far away from the people I dream of that the schism sometimes drowns me. And the infinite abyss, unto which I so often give myself, is not half as dark as the other side of the schism. The schism is a void. And more than anything else it is two things: unproductive and peaceful. Not mutually exclusive those two. For production or creation is always the the offshoot of some kind of conflict. In my little void, where I needn't acknowledge you, I am a happier person, with less to worry about, and lesser to disappoint me. The zenith of thought is there, alone. And it's almost incomprehensible. Every time I meet someone I seem to forget my precious reasons for being alone. And when I'm alone again I want to blame company for making me mutilate my solitude. It's funny that we call dogs stray. We're all stray beings. Living in awe of either some superstructure or assumption. The fruitlessness of compliance is evident in every replication of the face in a multitude. I want to spend this lifetime toying with perception. The overbearing nature of the human race will destroy the being. We must listen to music. We must watch movies. We must wear clothes. We must educate. We must get a job. Have a family. Work. Earn. Support. Die. But why must we? If the superimposition of rules and laws and assumptions is neccessary to curb the inherent evil nature of the human being then what use is it? But the Japanese woman must wear small wooden shoes, for otherwise the foot may grow. And well, but that would be ugly. I have ugly feet. I wish not to discomfit myself. And I wish not to explain.