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On Solitude

On Solitude

You asked me what it was about being alone that I liked...

I like the silence, the sound of nothing filling the air, save my breath. Sometimes I like the sound of music - that of my favorite artist, filling the room, my room. Without anyone telling me quieter, louder or skip to the next track. It's effortless, I like not talking, and sometimes I like the sound of my own voice, amidst the silence, and I might have a monologue with myself. I like having my guard down totally and wholly, knowing that there will be no prejudices or judgments. What exists in these moments - the sounds I like whether that be cacophonous or muted, the wine I enjoy whether that be dry or fruity, the occasional cigarette I smoke whether that be light or heavy, the sun butter I slowly and happily lick off that spoon, knife or my finger, that profound TED talk about transcendence or vulnerability on my to-watch list, dense but fascinating documentaries about conspiracy theories, aliens, drugs and pineal glands, my obsession with Mark Manson, the bizarre words that sometimes find their way onto a piece of paper or a blank doc on my computer, the overly rational non-fiction or totally irrational fiction that I can't wait to dig into - is the love I have for doing all of these things, with myself, for myself, by myself, sometimes done with sophistication but more often done without.

Sometimes I'll spend a few hours treating and primping myself. I'll take a long, hot shower, brush my hair, use essential oils, give myself a facial, gently rub lotion over my entire body, and spritz some perfume on my wrist and lower back just because I feel like it. Sometimes I'll light candles, put on nice lingerie, and heels just to walk around in my 30 sq-meter apartment whilst digging into a bar of dark chocolate that I'll swear only to have a quarter of, only to find out five-minutes later that my self-control is still lacking.

And I love it.

Other times I won't shower, and I'll throw on the same loungewear that I've worn for the past few days, leave my day-old and smeared make-up on, stuff my face with salted sun butter and sprawl out on the bed or couch in a way that closely resembles a beached whale.

And I still love it.

This is my time for self-reflection, and reflection upon people - things said and unsaid, events and ideas that I might have encountered earlier in the day or days previous but didn't have the time to ponder upon because my thoughts were drowned out by that of too many others. This is my time to ask why, why and why until I reach some epiphany about myself, love, the world, the universe, the meaning of life and the purpose of creation. It is only in this time that I'm able to process my feelings, something that takes time because of a tendency to intellectualize and rationalize things to a point that it robs you of feeling. It's a defense mechanism of sorts from having dealt with some trauma in the past. Or so I rationalize.

This is my time to doodle, my time to create art and my time to destroy it. Sometimes I look into the mirror and feel depleted and defeated. Other times I look into the mirror and feel like I'm invincible, and thank God for the face, body and good health he gave me. Sometimes I stare out into space and have no thoughts at all; other times I close my eyes and millions and billions of thoughts fly toward me just like the stars do when warping through space. Often I daydream of people I've never met, places I've never been, things I've never done, languages I've never heard. Everything is romanticized and exquisite. 

Every now and then solitude gives way to loneliness and I'll feel temporarily forsaken and sad, but then in that loneliness I remember how connected all of us are, not just in our shared loneliness but in our breaths and in our histories. In the very essence of our being. And I find myself relishing again in my non-alone aloneness, now and never, always and forever. 

On Reading

On Fire

On Fire