I think I am slowly but surely getting used to my very quiet roommate, her name is Solitude.
Solitude does not get any phone calls from family, no particular mark of attention from her kin, no sympathy whatsoever when she feels down and no sign of interest : she is invisible. Maybe the reason we get on so well is that we are very much alike : I can barely remember the last time someone asked about my day, my opinion, my dreams. As a middle-aged woman and mother, I too am invisible now.
I’m used to relying only on myself, whether in good times or bad. I take care of all the household chores, the grocery shopping, the yard work; I chop wood, carry heavy objects, prepare meals twice a day, and take care of my health (including dragging myself to the doctor with a fever of 39°): I handle all of that myself—for the first part.
The second part is taking care of the rest: the intangible things. Cheering myself up when I feel down, pulling me together in the worst times, giving myself reasons to look forward to experiences, coming up with plans that no one will see or be a part of, and nourishing my mind as well as my soul.
Solitude is my source of inspiration: she as well must take care of this.
Wouldn’t she invent Nature, birds, sunrises, rivers and wind precisely for this ?