Solitude - NOAN CHANG '26

Transient and fleeting, the human condition is never complete without experiences of the flesh. That the spiritual is only accessible by the carnal is but a simple truth. After all, what is more fulfilling than watching a tear in the heavens drip crystallized ichor, or hearing the solemn slick oozing from a stray thought? What is more satisfying than wading through a sea of wanton sensuality and watching the field of sacrosanct snow expand before the eyes? Or perhaps, sinful bohemian you are–you wish to plunge past the acid-joy of a thousand liminalities, to saunter through bleached bedrock fields of greed. Know only that as you tinker away at such frivolities, the past and present continue to meld together in an ectoplasmic multitude of truths and untruths–the distinction between the two means little, when faced with the grandeur of the human soul.

When you gaze into a mirror, what do you see, beyond the apathy that contaminates you? Strange machinations run through your mind in a feeble attempt to emulate a conscience, but for what purpose? The thought of a carnal vice flickers through your mind, for naught but a light scoff as you indulge in it once more–hypocrite that you are, your enlightened irony does not absolve of the sins that drape your soul. Rivulets of horror dance down your wicked hands, and still you cross them behind your back and cackle. For shame! A tint of guilt colors your gleaming face; your every breath hitches from the treachery that now befouls your entire being. You have ruined and actuated your divine artifice, and still, and still. What lies beyond the gritty glory you so aspire for?

Judgment runs through me, the irredeemable taint of my damnation gushing through each ventricle and vessel and muscle and organ. It approaches my synapses, tickling a malevolent whimsy that courses down to my diaphragm, wrenching away yet another gasp. It feeds greedily, without conscience, scraping away the last vestiges of my peace. It seems that I shan't be granted the solitude I wish for. Hollow tubules expand, allowing it to pass without obstruction–their treasonous apathy will be their own demise. My nerves tremble with the feverish grace of a final vibrato, then slacken–may they find their own stitched, tattered peace. Already, my judgment dribbles out into the world, one final cry borne from my flesh to be silenced in the curtains of the soul. In my final salvation, enlightenment dawns upon me once again–and under the glistening heavens, the earth reclaims what was once hers.