If I decide you’re my person you might as well staple yourself to me at the hip for all the indifference I’ll throw your way. I don’t just love. I adore, but I adore my own company just as much. When life starts screaming at me, solitude is my shelter because it’s the safest space I know.
I was never one of those girls who made out with strangers in clubs. While my friends were in the darkest corner getting acquainted with the sexiest mouth in the room, I was dancing alone next to the biggest speaker. They went home when the kisses got interesting. I went home because the sun was higher than my mood was.
Solitude and I got along well back then, and we get along even better now. I exist happily between walls and silences. This is where I feel most at home. My mind has a thousand adventures for me that don’t require company.
Once you learn how dangerous people can be, solitude becomes the only fearless space…
… until it jumps up and assaults you because too much isolation can be even more dangerous than people.
I’ve been sick for a while, which has dished up more solitude than I usually plan for. It’s given me a case of the roaming sads: that feels virus that makes you cry and use adjectives as plurals for no apparent reason. Some days I wake up happy. Some days I feel as though I’ve been possessed by Nietzsche. That’s when solitude becomes sinister because it transforms my personal weaknesses into gaping debilities. Insecurity becomes self-hatred. Body consciousness becomes dysmorphia. Isolation distorts everything.
Introversion is a fine balance. Time that energises can quickly become time that numbs. Reaching out is an easy cure. A few hours with friends and I’m back to my smartass self. Happiness stretches itself across the whole sky again, and all the pink clouds come out tasting of candy floss.