Loneliness and solitude are two separate states of being, as I once discovered. I’m not sure if I was lonely back then, certainly not by my current classification of it; but solitude was something I understood quite well. My solitude was at the desk in my bedroom of my parents’ house. I was a night-owl, staying up long after they had gone to bed. Hunched over my computer with my headphones on, drifting off into another world. Those first few hours into the next morning were perfect in that there were no peripheral noises. There were no busses groaning past, no trains rattling by, no nagging parents, nothing. The night was unspoiled.
The closer I came to entering my twenties, the more I longed for the privilege of living in my own house, alone. My very own fortress of solitude. A place where I could get a little closer to that familiar seclusion I had late into the night.
My first year alone went by quickly. Now, in my second year, I feel that time is beginning to slow as I begin to realise just how empty my home really is. It’s too much for one person, my unit. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and I only use one of each. The others remain untouched.
A while ago I turned down an offer to move-in with a friend. It would have been mutually beneficial, but I was too proud of my own space. A space which I only ever half-used, and now wish to share.
It’s difficult to find comfort from my own solitude. Only now have I come to realise that an excess of solitude is loneliness. Perhaps it’s this very thought that scares me, and why it’s been on my mind lately.
It’s strange that the very thing I once thought would free me, has now become a sort of prison. I guess people need people after all.