The world is cold and selfish. It barely bats an eye at our grieving. It spends so much time grieving its own demise.
On the way to rest in solitude, I listened to an audible book where another person told of their adventure into being with only self. Except she barely was alone. Day after day, visitors and visiting. The only time spent in solitude was when she was writing poems or finding sleep, alone, in the darkest hours of the day.
So what part of this life is best lived alone?
Looking into a mirrored reflection I beg, “Please let me find myself.” Slowly, I slip into a rhythm created by the sun, moon, and tide. In silence, one finds a way to revolt against the engulfing madness.
In trying to grasp the unevenness of life, I plan to make fear abide my courage. To wake another day unknowing. To wonder how I make my life worth living. To make a way in the wilderness.