They, Don’t Give Up Solitude.

A few lanes from your house, or a few kilometres away from your city, there are a kind of people who live in the same house, sit in the same chair by the same window everyday for many years. They are young, They haven’t seen much life. They don’t meet people, don’t have pets, don’t talk, don’t travel, don’t take their pictures. They eat the same kind of food everyday, listen to the same sounds, same music. They look out and imagine life outside the window, witness the changing colours of seasons, watch the same birds. They are suppressed by same conditions, surrendered to rigid conformity. They don’t have a choice, They cannot jump that line, yet They never complain, never rebuke or retaliate. They don’t break down, They just pass through all this. They aren’t resilient, They are just tired and passive.

They definitely are content, but also They are filled with a vacuum. It is one empty space inside the head which expands with time. It is a dark space, directionless, shapeless. They dwell in that space, confine themselves to there, it’s their comfort zone. They try to figure out meanings to smallest signs, to things like doors and the dark line between the frame and the closed door, cracks in the walls, crawling lizards, changing sounds, the ceiling fan, the messy shelves, the broken window pane or to that part of the room where sunrays fall. They try to describe patterns, designs on the bed sheets, nails on the wall, the hanging cobwebs etc.

They have desires but they don’t strive. They just wish for things, think of many undone things, but don’t do anything about them. They don’t judge and also remain unaffected by judgements, by stigmas, by expectations, by people. They are not ambitious or the ‘go-getters’, they don’t count money either. They don’t enter relationships, or look for attention. Most of the times there are no exact words in any language which help in describing their anguish. They don’t read, don’t practice art, neither do they take refugee in writing. They just sit and wait in vain.

It isn’t incubation, nor is it any soul searching business like how the yogis or Buddhists do. They don’t meditate or absorb cosmic energy imagining knowledge circles around them or follow anything that scientific philosophy says. They introspect, retrospect, silently watch out and observe the calm chaos underneath their chests, the hoarseness in their throats, heartbeat, blocked drops of tears, grumbling stomach and the occasional tickling of their nose. They feel the motionless movement inside their bodies. They are deaf and blind to worldly happenings. They don’t blink, they don’t comb. They just sit and don’t give up solitude.

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