solitude

spent easter sunday at the beach yesterday. 

brought rilke. there is something about his "letters to a young poet" that resonates, as if through the beautifully written lines he is speaking directly to me. 

reading this, always brings calmness, and the timeless realization that, yes, opinions of others do not matter. that yes, i have to live my life in order for me to enjoy it, that yes, i am a repository of treasures of experiences; that i only have to look within, even if i am imprisoned within the confines of suffocating walls.

this book will always be with me. its frayed edges a testament to late night reflections, its brown pages speaks of time spent mending, time and time again. 

until the next onslaught.