There’s a moment when I open up, in solitude. When I’m freed. When enough distance and time from society and others and habits and routines and schedules is achieved that my Self is liberated unto a certain kind of unique joy.
True solitude, I have found, is a delectable solipsism that must be attained only after great effort.
I’m sure others have found it in Nature. Thoreau, probably. Where the mind, with a novel depth, curves in upon itself and begins to appreciate both the world at large as well as it’s own activity…reflection surmounts slavish reaction, expression advances above utility, and the speaking function, the word production, becomes free to dance amidst the many collected vicissitudes of curve and association hidden in the interstices of the mind. (As here!)
Amidst this golden freedom, I’ve found only one diamond tonight:
Solitude itself is necessary for flourishing, in certain souls. Not every, and not always, but definitely for some. It must be nourished, watered, cultivated, and grasped like a rainstorm that visits only fleetingly but which feeds the succulents that hunger silently throughout the year for their rare waterings.
Recipe for bliss: recover aloneness, and rediscover the joys there.