19.01.2024 This evening’s solitude

I lay in bed, listening to “Happier Than Ever” the album by Billie Eilish on my phone to the left, to the right, “Bitter Fruit” by Achmat Dangor is stacked on top of “Anti-Oedipus” by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari. I have been reading, listening and thinking for more than two hours now. Starting with Billie, combining with Gilles and Félix, then reaching a state of allmähliche (eventual) philosophical expenditure leading me to turn to Achmat. Then I stop reading altogether. Only to immediately start again. As I am now. Reading the music. The album repeats unhindered. The highs and lows come and go regardfully of themselves, regardless of my-self. Tired solitude. Nourishing quasi-exhaustion. I feel alright. Just alright. A highly absurd emotional state. A state that makes a slight fear arise. How could this be? How is this possible? I am alright even with this fear. Solitude being the current axiomatic of my becoming - an axiomatic very familiar to me as a relative subject - it is not surprising that I’m quite alright. Often my solitude is invested with a hint (or more) of ecstasy, which is not the case now. It is 23:01. I have not spoken to anyone other than Billie, Gilles, Félix, Achmat and M since I came home this morning. I have also not gone outside in the conventional sense since then. My room encompasses many more: rooms, spaces, axes of intense locomotion. Evening readinglistening solitude is one of them. Itself again encompassing many variations, intensities and movements, buoyed up by experience and contingency. My experiences with solitude comfort me. It’s static lack of stasis, it’s calm contingency. It is intensely generative, at times overwhelmingly so. But even then it offers an ethereal frame. I am not overwhelmed currently. My solitude is tired and preparing for rest with a silent joy. I am still reading. I might open one of the books next.