The Intoxicating Freedom of Solitude
How I discovered solitude and writing
I am ten, walking alone down one of the roads of my grandparents’ village. I have walked here numerous times before, but always in the company of my cousin or grandmother. This morning, however, I decided I am old enough to venture out by myself. So, I left my grandparents’ yard, went through the gate and down the road.
I know this road well, but it is the first time I see it properly — the first time another person’s presence does not mute my perception. The dark green trees look majestic and mysterious; I step on the patterned shadows they cast. The air is still and heady, filled with smells of wild flowers and songs of wild creatures. A grey cloud covers the sun momentarily, like a curtain, then floats away. This path might lead me to the village grocery store or to an enchanted forest, and I am free to go there, free to see and feel what I want.
A large raindrop falls on my head. Then — on my shoulder and arm. The unpredictability of rain increases my excitement. The drops grow more frequent; soon, it starts pouring. I stop, amazed: I am alone under the rain, with no one dictating what to make of it. I can feel cold and irritated or one with the elements; I can choose to see thousands or raindrops or the surge of an ocean. This is one of my first encounters with the intoxicating freedom of solitude, the freedom of my inner world.
Twenty years have passed since that walk. My inner world has been a great friend — fascinating, fun, and comforting. But for a long time, I was convinced that it is inferior to the outside world, to the “real” life. I thought I could only create something meaningful through interactions with others, so I filled my days with them: friends, family, work, volunteering. It was a continuous battle: the more time I spent in the outside world — the less I spent in my inner one, but plenty of time alone is as necessary for me as eating or sleeping.
I lived within this battle until I discovered writing. One day, my feelings filled me up more than usual, so I gave in and poured some unto my laptop screen. It felt liberating, so I poured some more. Shortly, I had a revelation: by writing, I could finally create something meaningful out of my inner world.
Since then, I have been writing every day. Now, I don’t believe my inner world is inferior, and am able to see it properly. Writing makes me hyperaware of my thoughts and emotions. Even the dark ones seem majestic and mysterious; I step into the patterned shadows they cast. My mind is seldom still, always sorting through ideas. Occasionally, a grey cloud covers it like a curtain and inspiration eludes me; but soon, the cloud floats away. Words might lead me to a village grocery store or to an enchanted forest, and I am free to go there, free to see and feel what I want. I have discovered the intoxicating freedom of writing.
