Sometimes, all it takes is a few minutes sitting back over morning coffee, looking out the window to appreciate the magnificence of the day.
Solitude looks calm from the outside.
Inside, it’s a tug-of-war between freedom and pressure.
Tasks rearranged, lists rehearsed, progress promised. Solitude gives me time, yet the end feels out of reach. Nobody sees the battle, but it’s always there.
I have a love-hate relationship with solitude.
Sometimes it feels like luxury. No interruptions. No one else’s deadlines. I can work, read, or rest on my terms. Other times it feels like exposure. Without the pace of others, I become driver and passenger, map-maker and traveller.
Freedom is real.
So is the weight.
Everyone says they march to their own drummer.
But in solitude, the drummer is missing. The silence becomes its own beat. You invent the rhythm. Sometimes steady. Sometimes frantic. Always yours.
That’s the truth of being alone: pressure without witnesses.
I shuffle papers, rewrite lists, tell myself it’s progress. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s only movement dressed as progress.
Being alone also gives me focus. The quiet lets me tackle the primary tasks that need time and concentration. And with no clock ticking, thought runs free. Not just distraction, but freedom. And it’s free.
If I had a drum today, I’d beat it hard and fast. Not for anyone else. Just to remind myself I’m still here.
Solitude begs the answer to only one question: is rhythm enough?
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I so agree with this. Being alone is wonderful for focus, but without the pressure and deadlines of others, it can be hard to keep up the pace I sometimes desire.