Dearest Solitude,
I find myself nestled in the heart of this old house, where the wooden beams sigh with age and the curtains sway with the breeze of forgotten summer afternoons. This place, wrapped in layers of dust and dappled light, is your kingdom. It is where I come to sit by the hearth of my own quiet thoughts, a humble hearth that knows no fire but the slow burn of my own musings.
You, my gentle solitude, are the soft whisper of cotton fields under a waning moon, a lullaby sung by the night. Your embrace is as tender as the first dew that settles on magnolia petals in the dawn. In your company, I find solace that dances just out of reach, as if to tease me with the promise of understanding.
Each room in this old dwelling seems to echo with the stories of those who once walked here, their laughter now a ghostly murmur in the shadows. And yet, within these walls, you and I have spun a quiet dance of our own making. There is a grace in the way we move together, a quiet choreography only understood by those who know the language of silence.
The creak of the floorboards beneath my feet speaks to the passage of time, a time that stands still when you are near. It is in these moments that I see you most clearly—an intricate lacework of stillness and reflection, each thread a delicate whisper of what it means to be alone yet whole.
How tenderly you wrap around my heart, Solitude. Your presence is a garden of wild roses, where each thorn is a lesson and each petal a promise of what could be. I wander through this garden, knowing that in the absence of company, I am free to explore the depths of my own being.
And then it dawns upon me, as the first light of morning touches the edge of the horizon, that the true nature of our relationship is not one of mere companionship but of revelation. For in the quiet company of solitude, I have come to understand that you are not merely a refuge but a mirror. It is in your stillness that I have glimpsed the depths of my own soul, and in your embrace, I have found the truest form of love—the love that emerges when we are at last alone with ourselves.
Thus, I come to realize that my dearest Solitude, you are not just a haven from the world but a teacher of the heart. In your gentle presence, I have learned to love the quiet whispers of my own thoughts and the tender touch of my own reflection. You are the quiet symphony that has played beneath the surface of my life, guiding me to the most profound of truths: that to be alone is to be truly seen.
Yours always,
In quiet reflection
About the Creator
Taylor Ward
From a small town, I find joy and grace in my trauma and difficulties. My life, shaped by loss and adversity, fuels my creativity. Each piece written over period in my life, one unlike the last. These words sometimes my only emotion.
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Dearest Child
Dearest Echo of Summers Past, As I pen these words, I feel as though I am speaking to a star that has long since dimmed in the twilight sky, a distant beacon whose light once warmed the night but now flickers softly in the memory of time. You, my dear little self, were the golden thread woven into the fabric of those languid afternoons, where watermelon slices were more than mere fruit—they were the nectar of an endless summer, and sprinklers became the enchanted rain of our secret realm.
By Taylor Wardabout a year ago in Writers
Comments (1)
Well-expressed and personified. We all need alone time. This is a great example of descriptive writing.