Solitude is a bitter taste burrowed at the back of your throat.
It is there always, always lingering with its dull pain.
It loiters like a group of rascally teenagers at a park,
leaving only when it feels it’s done enough damage.
It’s a backstabbing friend, telling you being alone is a safe, happy haven
never to be frowned upon, or otherwise doubted.
Solitude beckons the popular, the busy and the occupied.
It calls out like an innocent child, holding what appears to be a gift.
But as you approach, you see that it is a deadly bomb, with rapidly
declining time left. These are the ones who cannot be resilient.
Cannot say, silence is golden.
They know too much of the opposite.
Solitude, a cloying friend, asks kindly, ‘join me’.
Makes fraudulent claims of peace and quiet, all the while hiding with
a sharp, pestilent dagger. It persuades with suave and charismatic
charm, speaking of warmth. It whispers into the ear of the joyful,
‘come join me’. Few of the luckiest are able to brawl with the attractive
Temptation, and turn away with pride.
Solitude is the placebo of vanishing hate. It is only a friend when hatred
Is too powerful to be outweighed by love. Solitude will creep in through
Your lone ears, and navigate its way through each tiny crevice of the mind,
Infecting each with sadness and despair. Every day, it will sink deeper.
Deeper and Deeper, until it is a permanent lunacy eating away at your soul.