There is bliss in solitude. For me. Maybe because I, like a gramophone needle like any other person, live in my own groove dug by conditioning. Solitude fleshed out my childhood and most of my formative period was filled by this. A different upbringing would have propelled me to another bliss. Even in the crowd in the noisiest of cities, my mind always manages to pitch a tiny tent of solitude which I can slip into from the swaying crowd whenever I want. Yes, I believe nearly everybody (if not everybody) lives in a solitude of their own, and many such solitary individuals make a crowd noisy with their solitary sounds let out at once. A random chorus.
While solitude and life in solitude may come across as boring to those unused to it, but those used to it are rarely bored. The barest and least exciting of things of everyday life form the tissues of their life and they sense every minute, basic building block/unit of their life. Every one of these tiny units beats with life, and that is busy beautiful. Boredom does not have a space to find for itself in it.
If such a life is characterized by boredom, I think home is where boredom is. Big events such as birth, falling in love, weddings, prizes, awards and so on happen once or a bit more in life, and they leave most of life’s space unoccupied. It is apparently insignificant things that fiil most of our life–waking up, washing yourself up, making breakfast, sharing it with your loved and near ones, going to work or do your daily duty, dusting the table and bookshelves, moping the floor, washing clothes, cooking, talking with friends and family or strangers about what turns out interesting or important at the moment.
These apparently insignificant things make the texture of our life. My life. There is a dayful to love in every life each single day. This gives me compassion to live with–compassion for everybody and everything. For people who love me or hate me. For things good or (supposedly or really) harmful to me. I may be hurt, I may feel the pain, but I can’t but still love who has come into my life and forms part of my life’s tissue. Black or white or grey, and what not?
This compassion gives me peace, a far deeper peace than all the disturbances in the world combined can disrupt, though I am often sad and shocked by what I am not used to around. Though I am hurt often, though I am sad often, I ultimately come back to myself, my solitude where I find compassion with which I look back out to the world. The world may not need me, but I need the world and I love it. Quietly. I understand the world more, see it more clearly, love it more from my solitude.