Solitude has got to be the most beautiful --but most terrible-- thing in the world.
Refreshing, rejuvenating solitude is the kind I find
when I'm alone in the woods listening to birdsong and laughing brooks,
or laying on my back in a grassy field looking up at the sky,
or lying in my bed at night watching candlelight flicker and dance on my walls.
But cruel, benighted solitude is the kind that finds me
when my soul is desperately searching for answers in the heartache,
or struggling to stay afloat in the tumultuous sea of emotions
or fighting to be stronger than the pain.
But I can write in both.
