The Comfort Of Aloneness

By myself and satisfied.

Ticking clock.

Silence.

The breeze beneath the door.

Silence.

Thoughts, louder than the sounds that carry from the domestic lives being lived at varying distances away.

More silence.

And with it, a stillness that distills peace.

In a world where ‘company’ is constantly finding new ways to intrude and impose itself, solitude is a luxury.

It is a heist of time, that increasingly priceless intangible commodity, undertaken bravely with no regard for feelings supposedly hurt.

Those hours by oneself are hard-fought islands of calm in a riotous sea that offers nothing and drowns all, if you allow it.

If anything ever needed to be kept behind walls impervious to everything, it is the seconds, the minutes and the hours of a life carefully lived out.

Loneliness? What loneliness?

I am too delighted to hear my own breathing: a distinct refrain that is a testament of my individual aliveness, too excited that I can be any part of myself I choose to be without the pressure of a scrutinising audience, to regard aloneness as a burden.

I am warmed to the core of my being by the knowledge that in this absence of everyone, I am home and home is enough.

So gratitude for the quiet, instead of a quest to gain admittance into hubs of activity whose profits are hard to recognise.

Delight at the peace that comes with creating soul space, room for the spirit to rejuvenate itself.

And a deep sense of appreciation for all that I am to myself: a refuge, a best friend, a sounding board and a mirror.

This is no small comfort.

The next best thing would, perhaps, be a consistently complementary interplay of presences with someone similarly mindful of the sanctity of their aloneness.