Though solitude is often an irresistibly attractive proposition, especially on those occasions when the misery of living seems enormous, inevitable, like a sky full of clouds so heavy with the world's accumulated tears and grief that blue skies seem like a distant, idealised, indubitably false vision the mind has imagined for itself since there are no other umbrellas that will shelter you from the storm anywhere to be found –
Once you have had your fill from the desired well of alone-ness, travelled aeons and aeons in the introspective labyrinths of yourself, you will begin to see that your soul is nothing in itself, that it is only a blank pad where the world has left its many impressions with the unfolding of time;
That you are nothing more than a patchwork of impressions, memories, and reflections of all that your senses have seen, heard, smelt, and touched of the universe and the people who inhabit it in these years you have lived in time. The language that you think in was designed to communicate your state of mind to others living their lives in the same temporal and spatial spheres, that all your thoughts and impulses, your very being as you understand it is ultimately oriented towards reshaping elements of the universe around you so that you fit in better in the space you have been assigned;
On seeing this, is it possible to escape the conclusion that it is by definition impossible to live solely for oneself? That solitude is after everything, little more than yet another illusion, yet another defence-mechanism your soul has created for itself to retain its sanity as the body replicates, grows, ages, and eventually decays;
That the only happiness you can ever enjoy will come when you live for something, someone else other than yourself – a cause, a person, a memory, a belief, whichever of these and more it may be.
Perhaps in doing this, in moments few and far between, you will achieve unity with a universe from which you are otherwise a left-out note, superfluous, played out of turn, off-key. Perhaps. I do not know. Loneliness is difficult to push out of the frame beyond a point. You can hope to fill the space all around with sound left behind by these words you are typing out for only so long. And then the silence will return. Like darkness that reasserts its authority with effortless ease once the last matchstick you've lit has burnt out.