On Solitude and Isolation — Carnation + Motia

I’ve come to learn, that, in living in this city, I’ve become more and more accustomed (and inclined) to solitude. That being said, I’m not a stranger to absolutely devastating isolation. When being ridden with anxieties of today’s world, it’s utterly terrifying to be alone. With your thoughts. For extended periods of time.

But, to me, solitude and isolation are completely different things.

Isolation is waking up with dread, knowing no one is there, not even yourself, to welcome you to the day. I was once so strongly and bitterly steeped in it, that I would make sure to greet the jumping spider on my windowsill every morning. After that, I’d greet the robins that made a nest outside that said windowsill. I still remember when I came back from a weekend away to see that nest empty—I was heartbroken.

That time is behind me, but my bouts of isolation, although reduced, still manage to pop up every now and again. January was one of those times.

I would, again and again, wake up to utter frustration at my being, loathing repeatedly (routinely?) the smallest actions I took.

“Black tea again? Again? Again? No wonder you’re victim to ennui.”

It was when the critical mass of self-criticism reached its peak when I made myself get up and leave my otherwise safe space in order to clear my mind. But, the isolation followed me, encroaching on the things I held dear. This time around, it just happened to be Super Bowl weekend. I forced myself out of my house, made the routine walks around the neighborhood, and I even ventured to two (yes, two!) social outings. And slowly, the isolation crept away, with a stubborn warning if it returning. I don’t know when it well. I don’t try to find out, either.

In college, I’d always sneak into any nearby chapel between classes/study breaks. An act of vanity for solitude? Perhaps!

Solitude, on the other hand, is exactly what I long for after a bustling weekend—and this weekend was close!

Solitude is waking up, knowing full well that yes, I do indeed want that black tea with a splash of milk in the morning. I want it because I like it, because it reminds me of my parents and Sunday mornings with halwa and paratha, and both those qualities make me happy. It’s meandering throughout my apartment, not really sure of what I need to do, but knowing that I don’t really have to do any of it. It’s me when I pray, with my head touching the soft threads of the prayer mat; when it does, my whole body feels at peace, as if prostration is a sigh of relief. It’s me being alone with myself instead of against myself.

Essentially, it’s solitude that reminds me to like myself. I become aware of what truly makes me, well, me.

And, I understand wholly that I cannot purely have solitude without isolation, nor can I have isolation without solitude, but, knowing that these two are indeed different has brought me much peace of mind. And, I need that more than anything.