Solitude

Solitude is where she lives. It’s a pretty place – quiet, unassuming. It has no expectations and needs only to be left alone… much like her. They understand one another and sit together through the empty hours; of which there are many. Solitude has no other residents. She’s been to other places, more populated areas of the heart and mind – she’s spent time in Love, Hope, and Rock Bottom. She did a stint in Addiction and wallowed far too long in Depression. She carries their memories like Polaroids, but Solitude is home now.

Greatness has come from Solitude. Henry David Thoreau spent time here, as did Carl Jung, Hemingway, and before each of them the biblical saints sought out Solitude and called it home. She doesn’t fancy herself great or saintly, but she enjoys the ghosts of greatness – they give Solitude its shape.

No one visits her in Solitude – doing so would deny the word and dispel the ghosts. That would make her Alone in Company. She has that Polaroid already. No need for more. She keeps everyone out. It’s better this way – she is where she wants to be. Maybe one day Solitude will yellow along with her other Polaroids, but for now? She has all the company she needs to fill the empty hours.

Solitude

wasteofpaint

Joined January 2008

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  • Arcadia Tempest
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