Solitude

I see Solitude standing in the doorway.

My body freezes as I see her with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

She looks at me, she stares, just this dim-lit silhouette.

I am seated in a room with some pleasant company of a loved one and some friends.

I stare back at her, holding her gaze.

Her eyes are smiling, with this sad cold grin, telling me it’s time again.

She comes to do what she always does.

Time has come for everyone to go again and for the room to turn cold and silent.

They all have places to go.

They all have people to go with.

I am left in silence.

My happiness is dependent on them, like an alcoholic to intoxication, the human nature craves connection.

And I hate it.

I look at Solitude with pleading eyes, but she just waves and I wave back.

There she goes, taking everyone with her.

She turns.

She walks away.

And locks the door behind her.

Solitude left me alone.

In the room, there only breathes the quiet and the usual tasks written on the door in her perfectly curved handwriting:

• Survive.
• Don’t compare.
• Don’t mind the pictures of beautiful landscapes and happy gatherings you get sent from far away.
• Don't drown in the silence

Sunny places, smiling faces, as I’ll sit here in the dark.

That’s the turning point I always come about. In the very moment solitude gives me that look again, freedom turns into isolation. Nothing really changes, it’s all simply in my head, as the duality within never wavers. Only the minds side of perspective on it.

Solitude pulled me to the other point of view.

Nothing changes.

Yet it can suffocate.

I refuse to succumb to it, so I try to ignore the words her eyes spoke as she left.

Turn to steel, work hard, train hard.

Solitude left a candle unattended.

It turns into a wildfire.

It consumes me.

I turn into a soldier, a mad-woman, a dragon and the moon herself.

There’s no one to talk to, nothing to share. Just the will to perfect myself for my own sake.

Work harder, the fire tells me. In a try to survive it, I must become the flame itself.

They say there’s always someone there. I’ve come to witness how that is a blatant lie, so why do people bother telling each other that?

Sometimes they’re all gone.

Not a single person is there.

Maybe Poe the crow will be, a poetic substitute for human connection.

The irony in his name, given from a poet who was missing someone.

Solitude makes me speak in other tongues.

So I cackle at the crow, I scream on the piano and howl on the guitar.

Who will answer?

Who will listen?

Tell me, will anyone answer at all?

Tell me, can someone hear me?

Do you hear me?

Is there any group of people I will ever belong to?

Not him.

Nevermore him.

How often do I need to be reminded that I am nothing but a possession for him? He wants me to be available at his desire, serve him as an accessory, but how dare I misstep in the path he wants me on.

In his eyes I am nothing.

I thank Solitude for taking him with her too, she is not solemnly cruel in her purpose.

He’ll be angry because of this.

His will was not fulfilled.

I always pay for that.

Then in her own time again Solitude stands in my doorway.

My body freezes as I see her with her arms crossed, nodding her head.

She looks at me, she stares, just this dim-lit silhouette.

I am standing in a dark room surrounded by scattered scores and poems on the floor.

I look at Solitude with black holes as eyes, but she just waves and I don’t wave back.

She turns.

She walks away.

She unlocks the door.

And everything streams back in again, flooding the room.

But is he coming back too?