It is as if I am getting wrapped by the curtains of solitude in a dark spacious hall. A hall only to let enter some wild winds through its large glass windows, wide open, but somehow I do not hear anything apart from the scary mysterious noise of the winds from the world outside. It is either that the town is already asleep or there is nothing worth listening to, at all.
The thin layers of solitude, without the colour grey or black, surround me one after the other, making themselves feel thin and light but uncontrollable still. This is one of those times when I am able to think of this darkness around me as some rare shaded layers of light but cannot think through them. One of those times when I am thrown closer to a face of myself that has been hidden. A face of myself that, I know, will continue being hidden.
With dark grey shadows over me, I walk slowly to an illusion. And now I know, the shadows do not surround me, they are the illusions created by the unknown, playing the roll of a thin see-through wall and then it's me. At the other side. Opposite from the place I stand at. I am so close to the opposite side that I am able to see the tiny dots on a dark complexioned skin. The skin is mine. I am able to get a glimpse of those eyes, placing a thousands of stories in front me. I try getting closer and there I am, feeling so much. About every soul I connect with and the things I know. In such a depth that I would choose to drown in the ink I could have tried to write with, explaining the intensity for I know it'd still not be enough. Enough is never enough. I'll still go on.
I am still wrapped by solitude. Alone by all means tonight. And that is when, my dear, I know, solitude has its own contentment.