The Mexican, as seen in the previous descriptions, does not transcend solitude. On the contrary, he shuts himself up in it. We inhabit our solitude like Philoctetes his island, not waiting but fearing to return to the world. We cannot bear the presence of our companions. Enclosed within ourselves, when not torn apart and alienated, we rush through a solitude with no references to a redeeming beyond or a creating here and now. We oscillate between surrender and reserve, between the cry and the silence, between the party and the wake, never truly surrendering. Our impassivity covers life with the mask of death; our cry tears that mask and ascends to the sky until it relaxes, breaks, and falls like defeat and silence. By both paths, the Mexican closes himself off from the world: from life and from death.
This self-imposed isolation seems to be a defining characteristic of the Mexican psyche. It is as if they are trapped in a cycle of solitude, unable or unwilling to break free. The fear of returning to the world, the discomfort with the presence of others, and the oscillation between extremes all contribute to this sense of enclosure. The mask of death that covers life and the ultimately futile cry that attempts to break through it further emphasize the Mexican's detachment from both life and death.
Perhaps this is a result of the unique history and culture of Mexico, which have shaped the Mexican people in profound ways. Or maybe it is a more universal human trait that is simply more pronounced in the Mexican context. Whatever the cause, the Mexican's relationship with solitude is a complex and fascinating one that值得 further exploration.