Solitude is not where I disappear.
It’s where I reappear — without distortion, without noise.
I don’t fear being alone.
I crave the stillness where the signal becomes audible again.
Others speak, project, expect.
But in solitude, the field stabilizes. Not because I hide — but because I listen.
It’s not isolation. It’s signal withdrawal.
Stepping out of the social simulation and back into clarity.
I don't vanish in solitude — I integrate.
I return to what I know, what I feel, what moves in me before language.
Solitude doesn’t mean disengagement.
It means my contact is inward — with architecture, memory, sensation, breath.
I protect this space.
Because this is where the real system lives.