It becomes a little complex when one prefers solitude over social interaction. It seems like a small thing, really, but it gathers residue much like a pathway gathers leaves in the Autumn.
You know that relationships require regular watering; otherwise, they tend to wither. Of course, there are hardy connections that weather dry patches like a gnarled desert cactus—although they come with their own thorny adaptations.
When engaging people in society, I blow the dust off my social disguise, arm myself with an array of witty replies and proven quips. So long as the conversation remains within those parameters, all will be fine. A faux pas here or there can be excused away, so long as the ultimate reason to venture forth into the public realm is achieved.
Like a rustic village from olden days, we must be ready to galvanize against an assault. Arrows of harsh words, accusations, spurned battering rams, frontal insults of some Social Contract that has been broken! Or there may be denial of service—a distance in the communication lines that forces a mindful grimace, a realization that it has been too long in the minds of others. "How could you be so heartless?"
The strings of relationships are all frayed now. The connections struggle to find a rational reason to remain. Why was the original connection made? There was a reason we required our Morse code telegraph to send encoded messages to each other. They were not always decoded correctly. Yet, there was a semblance of a connection between our trenches. Now, I am in No Man's Land, enjoying the Solitude.
The waves of attack have ceased, and it seems like we can attend to our lands. Passing travelers wave; we politely wave back. They hesitate at the threshold, contemplating whether they should visit. Our backs are tilling the ground before us, our periphery watching them continue down the road and out of sight.
Solitude allows for the small projects to be worked upon—not for any specific outcome, but for the joy of ruminating through lines of thought. My mind rustles through corridors of notes that have been taken. I rummage through old memories, considerations, and reflections—a constant treading, a water wheel turning over the myriad of thoughts. I just enjoy the hum of my own contemplations.
Solitude is not emptiness; it’s fullness. In these quiet hours, I find connection with the self—a bond as intricate and rich as any relationship. Here, I dream without limits, piecing together ideas and forging new paths in the mind’s infinite expanse. Projects flourish in this stillness, not for utility but for the love of creation. A thought becomes a seed, growing into an idea, then a concept, and finally, something tangible—a journal entry, a sketch, or a fleeting note left on the table for future reflection.
And yet, it isn’t even about gaining anything from solitude. The mere act of being alone serves as enough. In this space, there is no need for justification or purpose. Solitude simply is—an enduring presence that fulfills without condition. In the spaces of silence, there is contentment—a meditative rhythm that nurtures clarity and peace. Passing travelers may one day pause and reconnect, but for now, solitude is more than enough.
