On Solitude

If the concept solitude were to be an anthropomorphic projection, she’d be a woman. She’d have fair skin the colour of snow and white rose petals, fallen in some dark corner of a forgotten room. Her hair would be raven’s wings and the hush of a moonless sky. She’d have a small mouth, the kind you imagine puckering over sour wine and bitter stones of fruits, rather than relishing the taste of nectar and honey. She’d be dressed in the garments of grey, the colour of dust, embroidered with cobwebs, and the single jewel that adorn her slender neck would be light gathered at the death of stars.

She’d find you in hours and places where you least expect her. At first, as she draws you in for her kiss, you will find her cold, but upon realising this, she will raise her small hands to rub your back and feel your head to keep you warm. When you break away from her kiss, she will raise a hand to her mouth and blow you a kiss, as if to mock you, but you will find yourself hot and fevered- you will never know if it was the intimacy of the initial embrace or annoyance at her insolence that caused you to become flushed.

Your affair with her would be like the ebb of tides and riding boats in a storm. Every moment is choppy and unpredictable- you know not if she’ll embrace you at one moment or slap you. Or when it began and when it would end, for that matter. When she does strike you, you will fall, feeling alone and one in all the world, for her other aspect is melancholy. But when she smiles, your heart will tear at the sight of it and all the broken pieces will be filled with love and hope, for her third face is solace.

But above all, she teaches you to be on your own. Ever the wolf mother who threw her cubs out into the winter storm, she teaches you to find your own strength where you least expect it to be and survive…