solitude

And while he sat there on the end of the jetty, he__ let the sound of the waves fill his ears, watch the clouds and schools of tiny sweetfish, take pebbles he__ pocketed on the way and throw them out into the deep. Then when dusk began to settle he would retrace his steps, back to his own world. And on the way home, a loneliness would always claim his heart. He could never quite get a grip on what it was. It just seemed that whatever lay waiting __ut there_ was all too vast, too overwhelming for him to possibly ever make a dent in.

fallin lovewith your solitude

I am so tired. I have grown old from being serious. I have grown ill from being serious. I want to laugh at myself. I want to forget myself. I am so tired.

Solitude is the rebel of the freedom.

People who smile while they are alone used to be called insane, until we invented smartphones and social media.

Unerring solitude forces a person to confront their morality and aloneness. Solitude makes personal confession possible.

To imbibe so much quiet is to become the music inside it.

In solitude, you listen to the sacred voice.

you know the way of the wind in the night__he desolate alleys my soul takes

Near me nothing but distances.

I need to be alone. After a full day of talking, smiling, listening, showing, nodding, translating, I want to be alone. I want simply to come home, close the door, and sit in silence, gathering up the bits of myself that have come loose. I want to think, or not think. I want to rest.

People give me looks of pity and ask me why I want to wallow in my disconnection from a very connected world. It is simple. The world seems way too connected to me now. It seems to be ruining the lives of teenagers and bringing out the bestial cruelty in those who can hide their vileness under the mask of some idiotic pseudonym. I like to sit alone and think about things. Solitude is as precious as coin silver and it takes labor to attain it.

Solitary writers come out of nowhere and do not belong anywhere. They are not domesticated or socialized, not as writers. Their subject is not the world about them but the one within them. From story to story or poem to poem, they repeat themselves because all they have to work with are themselves and their dreams, which are strange dreams and often bad dreams. As anyone knows, nothing is more troublesome to communicate than yourself and your dreams, the feelings and visions that have molded you into what you are.

We are living in an era where mental health has become equated with, and measured by, the success of our interpersonal relationships, particularly the extent to which they bring us happiness. Yet as important as it is to be able to live peaceably with others, mental and interpersonal health ultimately require the ability to be at peace in the solitude of oneself and to enjoy, and be enriched by, the company of one__ own thoughts.

A person realizes inner calm and a state of rapturous peacefulness with nature whenever they stand in solitude and contemplate their existence in an infinite world filled with multiple galaxies.

I hate the very noise of troublous man Who did and does me all the harm he can. Free from the world I would a prisoner be And my own shadow all my company.

The sight of the wall of water outside reassured me, giving me the idea that it made very little difference whether I stayed with her, or set out alone on my journey that had neither visible starting point nor destination. It didn't matter: since, however closely I became involved with another existence, my own world would always remain secret, inaccessible and shut-off; nobody would ever see me, except as a dim, changeable, wavering shadow, through its impenetrable, semi-opaque walls.

Solitude and reflection are necessary to give to wishes the force of passions.