Often, I feel that an old soul resides within my youthful body. It doesn’t let me indulge in fleeting pleasures; it makes me melancholic, cautious, prematurely nostalgic. It has eyes that always see through to the essence of things, stripping away the lightness that others seem to carry so easily. At times, I feel as if all I can do is wait—wait for time to erode my shell, to smooth the sharp edges of thought and feeling, until the torment fades and I can finally find peace, and then depart quietly, without resistance.
But the truth is, I am afraid of solitude. I am not as brave as I wish to be. When I turn inward, I fear I might lose touch with the world that once sustained me—the laughter of friends, the colors of ordinary days, the little illusions that make life bearable. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I know that solitude is not the same as abandonment. Perhaps this old soul only asks me to pause, to listen, to endure the silence long enough for it to become music.