Solitude is not being alone; it is being the only one.
Expanding beyond the core, the single becomes everyone.
Solitude swallows boundaries, then gnaws at the edges of the self.
Yet only the edges disappear; one rules the core like a spear.
Only the self does not perish, and it conquers its vicinity.
It builds an empire beyond empires.
Imagination lifts the flesh and merges it with the heights.
Beyond the last obedient star, one traverses the voids.
It builds a full universe above the empty one.
It inhabits the cosmic infinite, incomprehensible to planetary life.
Solitude raises one toward the unseen, and renders one unreachable.
As secluded as a legend, it abandons one upon a mountain peak.
It educates without counsel, punishes without striking.
It is meticulous: one must surpass transcendence itself.
It teaches the taste of poetry, revealing its cold beauty.
It conquers the eyes, rendering all things with solemnity.
It locks the soul within this grandeur and strips away all vanity.
Silence, not of the soul but of the body.
The abyss devours the noisy
and answers without clamor,
with melodies no crowd can hear.
Solitude, not loneliness but sovereignty.
The hermit indicts the lonely
and immortalizes without brush,
with sceneries no herd can watch.
This mind is patient.
This heart is stubborn in its sentiment.
It lends nothing of itself away.
It allows none of its beliefs to sway.
Ancient before all things, it outlasts time.
Touching the world, it rewrites its essence.
Creating without possession, it is noble.
Possessing without creation, it is supreme.
Only the solitary spirit truly knows itself.
And every spirit that knows itself
remains alone with itself.
― Atrona Grizel