The fragments of solitude clandestinely inhabit every recess of my existence. They possess an eerie and pervasive quality. Enmeshed and torn asunder by the solitude that permeated my entire odyssey like fine particulate matter, yet I remained bereft of understanding on how to locate its locus.
These solitary specters pursue me as if phantoms. They reside within my corporeal vessel, draining my essence to sustain themselves, emerging intermittently to disrupt inner tranquility, sowing discord and commotion therein.
I find myself most vulnerable to the onslaught of solitude during idle moments, thus I opt for occupation. I might dedicate a morning to laundering garments, allowing each sud to occupy every moment. As I scrub and cleanse, I expel extraneous elements from the fabric, with the pure water sacrificing itself to restore the garments to their original state.
I presumed that amidst the laundering, the indolent solitude might seize the chance to flee, yet amidst the crystalline droplets and iridescent bubbles, I discerned the contorted forms of solitude clinging to my countenance, intertwining with my furrowed brow, becoming an indelible part of my visage.
Occasionally, I seek refuge amidst the throngs, where the cacophony of urban life renders the world vibrant and clamorous. Yet, the fervor fails to dispel the solitude; it erects an impregnable barrier around my heart. Thus ensconced in solitary confinement, I remain chilled and isolated, beyond the reach of salvation.
These bouts of solitude perturb and confound, obstructing any discernible exit. Often, beneath the shimmering night sky, I am plunged into contemplation. Perhaps everything is solitude, manifesting as a kaleidoscope of hues in the lonely expanse.
Perchance, I am naught but a human plant, firmly rooted in the soil, entwined by vines, with solitude as the dense foliage enveloping my being. When the breeze stirs, it orchestrates a symphony of myriad voices.
I am unable to sever these peculiar sensations from their roots; they resemble thick boughs and delicate capillaries. Their exuberance and vitality intimidate me, compelling surrender to the inexorable reality of our shared existence, from staunch resistance to resigned acceptance, a struggle unfolds. I am compelled to capitulate, unable to exorcise solitude from its source.
I recognize solitude as a mirror, reflecting an unfamiliar countenance. It often intrudes upon my emotions, instilling fluctuating sensations of warmth and chill, engendering anxiety over gains and losses.
I relish abundant time for reading. Amidst tranquil afternoons, bathed in the warm sunlight upon the balcony, I immerse myself in beloved tomes, transcending into alternate realms, comprehending the vibrant or somber lives of others, achieving a state of selflessness. Curiously, solitude can only evade in this space, for there exists no refuge.
Suddenly, I perceive that this brand of solitude stems from an inescapable figure, from fervent musings, from the melancholy and anguish of unrequited love. Solitude borne of love proves more intolerable than solitude itself. At times, only enduring solitude reveals its subtlety and nobility.
Why do I harbor such trepidation towards solitude? Perhaps my heart remains insufficiently resolute. Perchance, with the maturation of our minds, solitude shall become the marrow in our bones, fortifying our frailties.
Why does solitude inhabit my heart akin to a specter? I aspire to allocate space for solitude, tempering its restless nature into docility, refining its jagged edges so it may accompany me as a noble companion.
The solitude that sought to assimilate me, led by my hand through myriad journeys, nibbled at the verdant grass, its silent eyes akin to beads, discerning the essence of spring’s thoughts.