# The Black Colour of Solitude Man is born alone. He walks this earth alone. And one day, he will depart alone. This is the fundamental truth that no amount of crowding, companionship, or love can wholly erase. We may surround ourselves with a thousand voices, yet within each of us persists a silence that belongs to no one else. It is the solitude of consciousness itself—that irreducible loneliness that comes from being a singular, separate mind in an infinite universe. Yet we fear this solitude as we fear few things. We build cities, form societies, create elaborate systems of connection—all, perhaps, as a defense against the black colour of being alone. We speak constantly, not always because we have something to say, but because silence frightens us. We seek love with a hunger that goes beyond tenderness; we seek it as a lifeline thrown across an unbridgeable chasm. There is something almost violent in our terror of solitude. We call it loneliness and speak of it as an affliction. In our time, we have made entire industries of distraction—entertainment, technology, constant stimulation—all aimed at keeping that terrible silence at bay. We are never truly alone anymore; we are perpetually accompanied by voices, screens, notifications. And yet, we have never felt more alone. Is this because solitude, like darkness, is not evil in itself, but only becomes so when resisted? The man who fights against the night only exhausts himself; but he who accepts it, who allows his eyes to adjust, sometimes discovers in darkness a strange peace. Perhaps solitude is not a punishment but a gift poorly received. Within it lies not merely absence, but presence—the presence of oneself, unfiltered by the demands of others. In solitude, one meets one's own thoughts as they truly are: strange, contradictory, sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrible. To know oneself is to taste this solitude. And yet—here lies the paradox—it is from this solitude that all genuine connection springs. The person who has not made peace with being alone cannot truly meet another. He can only seek in the other a mirror, a remedy, an escape. True love, true friendship, requires two people who have each accepted their fundamental aloneness and chosen, despite this, to remain together. The black colour of solitude, then, is not the colour of despair. It is the colour of depth. It is the colour of all things that must be entered alone—grief, joy, growth, understanding. It is the colour of the night sky in which stars appear most brilliantly. To live fully is not to escape solitude but to befriend it. To recognize that we are, each of us, islands—and then to build bridges anyway, knowing that the bridges cannot make us whole, but only more truly ourselves.

# Solitude

I think I understand now, quite clearly, what solitude truly is. Of course, this solitude is temporary—it will pass. It arrives when a certain void opens up within you. Then you begin to feel it, spreading through the blood to every corner of your body. When this solitude diffuses across your entire being, no matter how hard you try, you cannot remember where exactly it began. And pain whose source is unknown cannot be healed.

Yes, this solitude will fade of its own accord one day. It will grow pale and pale until it dissolves. Tomorrow, the moment I step into the office, I’ll be consumed by busyness—staring at laptop screens, keeping project deadlines before my eyes—and this sense of solitude I feel right now will simply vanish from my mind! In all that rushing about, where will there be time to contemplate loneliness?

But now? Now I cannot escape from here. I’m trying so hard to lift my spirits, but it’s not working. I know it will pass, just as it has before; but how will I endure until it does? There was so much I had to do! I can’t remember any of it now. My mind won’t work. Nothing comes to mind. It feels like I should take a leave from life itself, right this moment. Those who say cowards are the ones who flee life—they’ve probably never been consumed by solitude like this. Are those who flee life truly cowards? Or simply alone?

Nothing feels right. In this whole world, there’s no one alive except me. Everyone is dead. They’ve all abandoned me and gone somewhere else. If I were to step outside right now, onto the street, I would see no one—only empty shops, empty houses, empty alleyways grinning at me with bared teeth. Their eyes and faces would hold nothing but contempt, and I would feel even worse.

I grant you, life has its bustle, its celebrations, its noise, its joys and merriment. Look closely. It’s all just masks! Think of the face underneath them all. How long can this false performance last? Only a short while, isn’t that right? And then? By day’s end, who remains with you besides yourself? Does anyone accompany your tears? What use is companionship in laughter? Does laughter require anyone at all?

Stop looking at the masks. Look at the faces now. You’ll understand everything. Everyone wants to live with themselves, but it’s never that simple. Can you endure your own tears? Even if you could, for how long? How many people possess the strength of mind to swallow silently whatever comes—to gulp down their own meaningless ravings? You won’t find one in a million who can acknowledge all their own senseless utterances and remain quiet, unmoved, detached.

And so the solitary person grows progressively weaker—mentally, physically. Crying every day, drowning in darkness every day, hating yourself every day, reaching out daily only to find no hand to hold, bearing a different shade of sorrow each day, watching yourself become more alone each day—these things are easy enough to write down or say aloud, but not so easy to endure.

Solitude kills a person from within. From the outside, no one can tell.

Those who have never passed through such solitude, or who managed to escape it by some means or other, cannot even fathom the terrible anguish of it! They will perhaps say, “Pray! He who has no one has God!” They do not know that the real truth is this: he who has no one has nothing at all! He who has nothing has no God either. A person so utterly forsaken loses even the strength to pray!