Solitude seems to be a misjudged notion, at times a concept misinterpreted, ignored, shunned. I get in spaces which demand me of my own silence and revery (more frequently than others, it seems — though possibly a faulty assumption). Surrounded by too much “stuff” — people, events, noises, time — my mind becomes weary and I resort inwards like a doughy hermit to its shell. It doesn’t take one long to deem, Introvert, Introvert; the green and yellow bulbs flashing and flickering away.
I used to, in my younger years, think it was a characteristic of the “odd,” the loners, the strange ones but only in result of the satisfaction of others (it takes awhile to get to the point where you can give one big “Fuck it” to what others think, doesn’t it?). Even to this day, I get curious comments such as “Why are you traveling by yourself?” “A girl like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.” Obviously they mean no harm or judgement, though I still wonder why this is.
I relish the time I do have alone — it is the only time I have to center myself, to feel the warmth of the universe in my own veins, to remember such things I couldn’t otherwise. And I am fortunate to have people around me who understand, who give me those silent parenthesis of infinity. So, now I am reminded to center myself when I can and solemnly breathe in.. out.. in.. out..