Solitude becomes a habit. It can, in time, bring its own comfort, be a bulwark. It can be wielded like a weapon, worn like armour, imbue with its very essence. I have become solitary, enamoured with self-sufficiency and self-reliance. I have withdrawn from friendships, absented myself from those who mean most to me. I have treated my separateness as something more than it is, something virtuous when, in reality, it simply is. I exist in a vacuum.
And I am not sure why. I am not sure how I undo it. I am not sure if I want to.
There is an addiction to this form of loneliness, this unequivocal independence. It shields, it wraps, it stands firm, and like all things of this nature, it becomes more and more firm over time. It no longer protects, it binds. Gaps become chasms, walls thicken and grow, crenellated with self-preservation. Existence becomes a fortress.
I wonder if I am on the cusp of irreversibility. I wonder if it is too late.