Solitude: What the Dream Requires to Come to Life

Sometimes the dreary slips out from my deep, and I begin to consider dreaming up, actually doing, writing, creating, reading, journaling. I make to-do lists. I think about buying a vanilla/cinnamon candle to burn when I leave work, and begin remembering what my solitary life entails. What I would like it to entail.

I have dreamt, my entire life, of who I will be. I consider the house I'll live in and what I'll draw on the walls, what paint I will use to make the space spacier, to make it a bit easier to spread out and breathe within four walls. I dream of afternoons where the windows are open and the breeze is calm and the flowers haven't wilted in their vase on the sill. I dream of stillness and my lungs lift, all of my organs lift, at the thought.

And then there is the exhilerating thought that I can make my dreams, or begin the process, with my two hands now. I can put my words to paper and I have paint, unopened, on the shelf. I have memories to turn into stories, and a few solitary mornings to breathe into the full person: myself by myself, and the self I've been in social circles, with my boyfriend, at work. I have time to connect all the dots, to bring all aspects of myself together like ribbon ends and know who I am, in my entirity.

So I begin the work. I open the journal. I make lists. I find poem notes to stretch into full pieces, and small thoughts to elaborate. Then the major conflict I always encounter strikes. I go to the keyboard and am empty. I take words out of the air and all of them come together in such shabby pairs. Everything is disappointing, suddenly. Thus, I am disappointing, suddenly. And I cannot go on.

I begin working out the dream, and the dream turns out to be a hell of a lot of work. I'm ready to crawl back into bed, to call up someone to dive into, to pass the time with, to forget about what I've been avoiding: time to know and be and live into my own dreams, into what makes me. I become and observant dreamer, again. Wishing and hoping and fantasizing, but never stepping into the big mess living out our dreams requires.

I have learned that I need solitude to be fully me. I need my own work to feel fulfilled and feel valuable. I need solitude to mull my social experiences and open myself up to what has happened in that part of my world. I need to be by myself, with my art, candles, taking baths, listening to my favorite soft-blue-toned music, with my deep pain, with the joy people have brought, and hem it all in, consolidate, and feel full, satiated, alive.

I don't know how to approach solitude right now. I am restless. I want to move and go and talk and be with, rather than without. I don't know how to be productive when it comes to my own life and my own aspirations. I'll try again to set goals, and hope that this week I'll have the exhilerating experience of accomplishing one.