Solitude - Blog Posts
Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit
Sometimes, alone is safer. That’s not the conventional wisdom.
Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper
my heart is fluent in a tongue my mind can't translate. so i lay still on my bed, experiencing a wildness that can breathe me back to life from beyond my grave. tonight i believe in spirits. maybe i am a ghost when i fall asleep; anything is possible this very moment because it is nothing like the one it succeeds nor like the one it will precede. the future hadn't been created when i wrote the last sentence and now i am in it. Ah, to be alive.
“The Strongest Of The Strange”
you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they are not.
those odd ones, not many
but from them come
the few good paintings
the few good symphonies
the few good books
and other works.
and from the best of
the strange ones perhaps
nothing.
they are their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.
sometimes I think
I see them – say
a certain old
man sitting on a
certain bench
in a certain way
or
a quick face
going the other way
in a passing
automobile
or
there’s a certain motion
of the hands
of a bag-boy or a bag-girl
while packing supermarket groceries.
sometimes
it is even somebody
you have been
living with
for some time –
you will notice a
lightning quick
glance never seen
from them before.
sometimes
you will only note
their existance suddenly
in vivid recall
some months
some years
after they are
gone.
I remember
such a one –
he was about
20 years old
drunk at 10 a.m.
staring into a cracked
New Orleans mirror
facing dreaming
against the walls of
the world
where
did I
go?
~Charles Bukowski
Together, I am isolated. Alone, I bloom.
After all, writing isn’t the whole damn world. Fuck this writer’s block.
I’ll walk around, watch Béla Tarr or Andrei. I’ll call Joyce she never runs out of words.
Or I’ll sleep it off, because I refuse to let a blank page make me consider the unthinkable.
"Who do you know, boy?" "Me—a hell of a lot of myself." "Isn't that enough?"
They wanted me to become a man who fights for his respect. But I became a man who respects himself. And that’s how I became awkward— and I loved
that
kind of awkwardness.
Maybe all that we want is already taken— no matter how much we cry, yearn, lament, we never seem to get what we seek.
Compiling Mirthday feels like walking through a forest of thoughts, deciding which trees to let grow and which to prune. This book is my heart in prose and poetry—a map of solitude’s hidden trails. SOLITUDE AND LONELINESS, TIME AND CHANGE, INDETITY AND EXPECTATIONS, THE ABSURDITY OF LIFE, MENTAL HEALTH AND SOCIETY EXPECTATIONS all loom in atleast all the pieces i have so far collected .
feel free to be a part of this experience here and its free mate.
https://www.patreon.com/lifepath25
ooh God, good Lord
the pain then, the seasons of lamentations, that seemed to never have an end. the tragic distances of people from me. Was it all to mean that You alone was worthy of my trust ?
ooh God, good Lord
it was it was it was .
Now,with this modest relief and fleeting felicity ooh God it was you that deserved my trust all along.
But do we stop, halt and realize that we are indeed still breathing?
Because no matter the emotions
or
notions of what we intend to do or become,
the mere fact that we are breathing is a salient one.
All the romance. All the dreams. All the love. we thought to give but never did, at some point fades away and we are left to settle with anything that works. In the end its only what we never wanted to become, to have, to reflect that we cheer with.
Maybe the only lesson life has for us is love for what we were, for what we are, and for what waits, even as we slip into whatever comes after.
Like in every other pursuit soccer, music, painting, writing or a degree in medicine some succeed while others plummet. Likewise loneliness follows suit some flourish in it others are demolished by it. even when they seem to revel in their solitude. @lifepath25