When even music stops

Solitude is not a desolate region. It’s not a physical confinement, absence of others, imprisonment of the soul, or any other form of cursed state or exiled condition. It’s a modest place where we turn to when all else fails, when even music stops. In there we’re stripped naked of every layer we posses; our masks are no more, a place in which all theatrical curtains are closed. In solitude we meet ourselves, only to find ourselves.

Sculpted from objectivity of judgment, a source of the power of healing and complete restoration of faith – solitude is a rebuild from scar tissue; there, we recreate our torn psyche. It’s a talent to listen to the echoes of the voice, an ability to transform our stench into tolerable perfume. This tool for self preservation, is a red alert signal for wide awakening. It’s not connected with other people, it’s not a dark tunnel of loneliness; it’s an origin of the power within, an inner path of rediscovering our radiance.

Many confuse it as a prelude to depression. Most discover it as long battled fear, one stair to insanity of the mind, unwanted condition bringing them closer to an edge of tearful existence. And most become refugees of themselves, runners, escape artists... Unwilling to face who they truly are, unable to accept their faults and turn them into some kind of bearable nobilities; surrounded by other people and yet again feeling lonely, numb down to their essence. Ego, come as you are...

Throughout their lives people obtain an inability of impartial analytical thought, as some sort of tool for self preservation. Which is kind of sad…