Solitude

A Solitary Life

Solitude was a word I was familiar with; it was a word I was comfortable with.

Many thought it to be a word that corresponded with loneliness, in which someone can not be happy in solitude. Depression is a side effect of solitude and solitude is a side effect of depression.

For some though, for me, that is inaccurate.

By definition, solitude is the state of being alone. There were two very different view points on solitariness: one, it was needed for charging our inner selves, needing time alone so we can interact with others; a self reflecting period. Two, it was incredibly lonely, solitude represented isolation and desertion, only bringing negative side effects as consequence.

Being alone was how I lived my life, I was a solitudinarian, someone who seeks solitude. Lonliness wasn't a feeling I was familiar with. I enjoyed being alone, I relished in the freedom it brought me, I didn't do much with that freedom but I still loved my situation.

I talked to people when necessary, occasionally conquering my anxiety and being able to speak to them without stuttering or panicking.

I was happy with how my life was and I had no trouble spending the rest of my life alone. Some may call that stupid or a waste, but I called it perfect.

My days consisted of me eating breakfast, alone with my dog, working on my third novel, alone with my dog and then going on a walk, alone with my dog.

My routine was disrupted when I had to do my weekly shop at the local supermarket, alone without my dog. I spoke to myself, asking if I needed some more milk or if I wanted any chocolate biscuits to snack on while I worked on my book, ignoring the odd looks I would receive from fellow shoppers, and then head to one of the tills where the cashier and I never talked, only when he told me my total. I would say a quiet thank you and be on my way, feeling extremely proud for pushing myself.

I thought about what I would need to buy from the shops as I walked along the canal, on my daily walk with my cocker spaniel, Loki.

The wind blew, a slight coldness to the late September breeze and my brown hair whipped across my face. The trees along the canals were large, towering over and almost hiding the man-made water chasm. Yellow, orange and red stole the leaves greenness and some were scattered along the ground and on top of the still water, the only ripples being made by the wind, the small fish that swam in its chamber and the ducks and swans that floated atop.

My feet hardly made any noise on the concrete as I walked beside the water and there weren't many walkers, dogs or cyclists today which made it better.

Every time my eyes set on another figure, my heart would quicken, anxiety causing the miniature heart attack, and my mind would switch to overdrive, thinking and overthinking about what I would do if they spoke to me.

Do I say hello back? Do I comment on the weather? Do I compliment their hair?

My mind would swirl and I would panic and by the time I had come up with an answer, which was normally force a smile and walk faster, they had passed without a word.

I would then feel exceptionally stupid for overthinking and worrying so much over such a small exchange which ended in nothing, but that would be forgotten when my eyes set themselves on another human.

But today, the canal route was clear.

Loki walked a few paces in front of me, trotting along happily. His nose would connect to the ground every few steps, sniffing and meandering along the concrete until he shifted to the side, either to the trees to the left of us or the length of grass that ran beside the canal on the right, and would sniff, and then wee a little, before going back to his happy trot in the middle of the pathway.