As I walk my garden row there becomes in me a question of if I am living for solitude or servitude.
I toil for my daily mile and become satisfied with none of the paths I find.
I desire to hear a soothing voice in my own head, and to that aspiration and bar-stool I continually pull up a seat.
Never mind my acquaintances, quotations, and the random folks I meet along my solemn walks of this journey.
I am my solitude
I am the logger on a forbidden mountainside chopping for my fortune.
There is a calming vibe, and a release, once you shut off the constant stream of society and their morose reality.
I shut my ears and unplug the power cord.
I indulge in my own sounds and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Silence is a definition that is situational and pliable as the artificial truth of society falls away quite suddenly.
I become my pen, my sword, and the constant gardener of my path.