There exists a time wherein I have felt suspended, as if in a bubble within which solitude was never more emphasized. I have yearned and dreamt, searched and sought, and in solitude, I have spent many a teardrop.
Solitude being the one constant from the farthest corner of memory, presenting comfort, like a blanket one clings to as a baby, as toddler and as a child. Solitude, like so much that we hold close, that becomes repugnant, instilled by a sense of dissatisfaction, by that stagnation which accompanies comfort over time, the inducement of yearning.
What is desire but seeking to complete that which is incomplete, that without which we recognize we are incomplete, that which we subconsciously understand must belong to us, that must finish what is unfinished.
What we have we do not want, yet we hold onto it all the more simply because we have it.
When we venture out of our comfort zone into that territory we had always wished to walk upon, how is it then that it becomes so difficult to return?
In solitude, we sing with all our heart for the dreams that come into being and take form out of the silence that enshrouds. No silence surrounds us more than in solitude wherein we hear our thoughts as loud as our own breath and our emotions as loud as heartbeat. Whether the star attraction, or the one everyone turns to for help, whether the one with the loudest laugh, or the widest smile; whether the one with the most friends, or the one alone lost in thought while everyone walks ahead, no matter where we are or where we go, it is with solitude. It is solitude that whispers to us: there is always something missing.
What we have we do not want, yet even when we let it go, it remains because it has always been ours.
When there are so many hearts who seek the same comfort, another soul to somehow share that solitude, how does it then become so hard to let go of it? We come to the crossroad of deciding whether to hold onto one or the other - solitude, and therefore security, or the fulfillment that comes with togetherness.
We learn that when we must make this decision with conscious thought, no sooner it exists than it dissipates, and we plunge again into that from which we emerged. With how hard we fall each time, we sink further into the abyss, and the harder it becomes to remove the doubt that we will ever escape.
But what is it that we wish to escape? That which we want most has always been with us. In solitude we learn to crave that which we understand we lack, and yet with the essence of every need, the essence of every dream, the essence of every dream that shattered and broke, out of the essence that has accompanied us through each waking moment and every dream we have dreamt, the purpose for which we have been seeking, that in itself has been part of who we are, who we have been and who we will become.
Fulfillment is not in the dispatch of solitude. When we realize that it is ours, it is as if it has always been. Everything we have always dreamt of becomes so enmeshed with the essence of being that even when you walk away from it, it belongs to you. It is an existence wherein there is no start; it merges and intertwines so naturally that it becomes impossible to know where and how it began and impossible to measure how much it quantifies, all you know is that is incontrovertibly a part of you and all that you are.
It defies explanation yet is understood. It escapes the grasp of words, and yet, in solitude, I have tried.
There is a fulfillment that belongs to us. Sometime over the horizon, or behind the clouds. Sometimes it is is your teardrop that has fallen on their head as rain. It is in solitude that you miss it, crave it, and in that absence, it has always been with you.
