Solitude

There's beauty in the solitude and the quiet hum of thoughts and imagination run wild. Of the creak and groan and every moan of the house being the only noise, interspersed with the occasional traffic or pedestrian on the sidewalk yelling to another pedestrian.

There's beauty in the comfort of your bed, of your space, of your room. The way the keyboard seems to know you on your PC, the clicks of each key familiar and worn, the way your mattress seems to fit to you, your pillow a loving embrace of your skull.

There's beauty in mowing the lawn, in changing the pattern, the grass a diagonal stripe now instead of horizontal, the smell of grass and weeds blown about and leaking in through the windows that are open at night to cool the house down from summer heat.

There's beauty in music, to yourself, headphones on and eyes closed and the lyrics occupying your thoughts and the gentle melancholy of a song that hints at summer's passing and aging and regrets.

There's beauty in the way the tall grass waves in the breeze and the sunlight cascades off of cars and reflects light all about, catching interest with just the most miniscule glance from the corner of your eye.

All these moments of solitude, vital moments, at times, will be forever etched into your brain, their profundity never fully explained to anyone else, lacking the dopamine and instantaneous reward of talking with someone, of laughing with someone, but etching into your head and heart your personality all the same.