Imagine being trapped in a cabin in unknown woods.
Imagine being on a getaway to a cabin in the woods.
For the first few days? Solitude. Good.
Then the real fear starts. It's not the fear of a stranger, from the unknown, from anything of the outer world.
It's the fear from your own self.
Weird things start happening when one starts cherishing solitude more than they should. It takes an ugly turn towards loneliness. And the scariest person is you and the only one who can help you is well you.
Solitude starts when you are not in tune with your daily life, the mundane absurdities of it that you've to deal with like a machine in a factory doing the same things again and again.
It's when you look outside your window and dream to see hills instead of buildings. Trees instead of people swarming like bees, buzzing your ears off, killing your vibes.
And then you're perpetually tired of churning milk over and over again when buttermilk means nothing to you and you want exotic fruits from afar. You're exhausted, but you want to run away. You want to flee with the winds, you wish the birds swoop down and clutch you safe in their beak and take you away. You wish to elope somewhere else you'd rather be. You want to run, anywhere but here.
And on sunny days you wish the clear sky atop you spins magic and burns reality to ashes to raise your dream world around you. You want so bad to relax. The world around you seems bleak. All the laughter you share with the pretty people around you seems petty when you sit in the darkness of your own room and ponder about what really matters. You're dazed, confused yet one thing you state with utter conviction that you'd rather be anywhere else but here.
You cry in the dark, oblivious to the fact that those gems your eyes shed glitter in the night.
This place where you are, honestly, sucks. Those green grassy lands over there by the sweet meadow, the transparent river looks utterly my type. That is calling me and this right here tastes sour in my mouth. You say that to yourself enough times that it's etched on the very skin of yours and a closer glance at you in the dark would reveal all of the words to anyone with or without eyes.
And on rainy days, you just give up. You just let go as if the heavens have cried and cried and washed out your ability to give any more fucks. As if they've washed out the reality you live in.
You walk by, your world your own under the umbrella, other things vanish from your eyes. The puddles your main concern. To jump in joy or avoid.
Again, imagine being trapped in a cabin in unknown woods. It's the same feeling of being trapped in the very world around you, the one you know too well and that is what pisses you off now.
Now yet again, imagine being on a getaway to the same cabin in those very unknown woods that scare you. But this time, you're willingly walking into this house that gives you the sense of belonging because you've never had something like this - tranquility, serenity, so close to mother nature.
We all fall for things we can't have because we think what we have isn't already essentially the same as what we want. We search around like lunatics for all that we dream of in places afar and the immediate world around us blends into bland substances of the past - of all that we long to leave behind.
We're behind this purdah that romanticizes all that beyond our reach to the point where we begin to shun our surroundings, our sense of self - lost in the longings of our desires to grab onto the figments of fiction that we dream of, forgetting that art is always an imitation of life. So if art gives us the impression of a grand trip into utopia, why can't we look for the same in our life?
//Featured Image is from here.
//Written in haste. I knew I wanted to write something about solitude and how even if I sing lores praising it, I forget that it's distancing me from all that I once loved and I chose to ramble on and on about my miseries. Eh, life is beautiful - I'm just exaggerating the drama. I saw these nice pictures on We Heart It and here it is.