I firmly stand by the bitter truth that we are all alone in this life, in a way.
We are all existing in our own solitudes.
Sometimes our solitudes find the solitudes of others,
and they are solitary together, simultaneously; synchronized solitude.
If you are in a room full of people, you are still solitary,
the only one with access to every aspect and essence of yourself.
Rilke even once said,
"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."

[Perhaps I'm just speaking for myself;
my walled-off, tongue-biting, facade-bearing self.
Truthfully, I can count those who I have revealed my true self to on one hand,
not even utilizing every finger upon that hand,
and have been let down in every instance and wished that I had not.
I quickly recoil and lock it back away,
until I am persuaded to dust it off again.]

I deeply cherish my solitude in a way.
It is entirely mine.
Perhaps I love it with too much intensity,
place too much pressure upon it,
because it, too, shall occasionally fail me.
On this date, every year, it fails me miserably,
and I end up experiencing a deep depression with night's onset,
with the onset of my solitude,
no matter how wonderful the day was.



Today is my birthday.