What Is It?

I think I just found the whole point of solitude. I suddenly got it.


I was reading C. S. Lewis (Perelandra) and at one point Ransom reflects that “a fruit does not eat itself, and a man cannot be together with himself.”

In solitude, it inevitably happens that I try, and try again, to be “together with myself”;

and just as inevitably, I fail, and fail again, until I’m beside myself.

There is no one here in this alone-ness but me, and it is not possible for me to keep myself company.

And yet, this solitude is not empty in the least.

It’s full of Something that explains my inevitable failure to fill up the abyss with myself.

I experience it from the very Source— There’s just no room here, for more than what’s already here.


Then come the ineffable, shivery questions that have only wordless answers —



What is it that inhabits this Emptiness, occupying every angle of eternity?



What is this Element that wedges itself invisibly into every available space?

What is this Presence that is not a person, and yet somehow it is?

What is this Silence that resounds throughout this limitless convergence?

What is this implacable Gravity that swallows up all my excuses?



I did not bring it here; it did not bring me here— but here it is, and so am I.



It has never left, and yet is always arriving.

It does not move, and yet is not inert.

It does not speak, and yet it conveys a message.

It does not wait, and yet it has always waited.

It does not bargain, and yet it fulfills all debts.

It does not console, and yet it grants reprieve.