In solitude alone do I meet myself.
I meet a lot of people and become queasy. Then I come across a mirror and see an aging man — Sorry, I say to him — I don’t know why. Maybe it’s all my mistake.
Perhaps I don’t know how to live.
But I am not a pessimist. So when I have time, I try to find a moment of solitude. Sitting by myself doesn’t feel bad.
Rather, free, that feels close.
And I pick a book to read, or lie down and watch blankly at a wall or a spider working at its web.
And just like that — in an hour or so, without doing anything without talking to anyone, without scrolling reels — the world seems to loosen the grip of my throat … I start feeling better.
Weariness starts wilting away and I feel washed with new zest. I wander off and if I catch a look in a mirror. I am not that fucked, I think. And that feels better.
Solitude keeps me at some distance from breaking down. And I plan on clinging to it with a tight grip.