The two sides of solitude

[u/itz-harsh-]

tastes like that bitter medicine my mother made me drink.

The spoon held by my mother.

My jaws clenched.

The medicine shoved in my throat.

I didn't like it, but it cured me.

Sometimes it feels necessary.

Sometimes it's the only way to comfort yourself,

sometimes the only way to know yourself.

For some, it is the medicine.

For some, it is the disease.

Some got none on their back,

some got everyone,

still no one can escape this experience.

Bounded by the ideas others formed about you,

ideas that shape your personality,

which somehow isn't even yours.

Seeing yourself through others' eyes

and believing it's really you.

For some, it is.

For some, it is only possible when they are six feet under,

when they are ash,

or when the river has them.

Could notice the leaf falling,

could notice the clock ticking,

could feel the gust of wind blowing,

could hear the heart speaking.

The domain ruled by silence,

thoughts running like the blood in the veins.

Some want it like how Pi wanted that tiger to return.

Devoured in it completely,

some call it peace,

some call it loneliness.

Some see it as getting separated,

some see it as giving time to oneself.

Brain stops,

something greater than brain,

something that rules the brain awakens.