It is wonderful to be alone. Not lonely, which is the feeling of lack; a need for an incomplete center to reach for wholeness; but a true moment by moment discovery of what one is. But not who one is.
The who is the story. It may be sad, grand, greedy, lustful, reckless, wanting, or any number if things, but it is a story, and the story is always imagined.
"Doesn't one need the story? Doesn't it give substance, or give rise to the individual?"
This who is not an individual. It is comprised of consciousness, and this consciousness we all share. All of its contents are shared between us. No, not that it is shared; we are it. All of the neuroses, compulsions, stories, sorrow, knowledge, systems, and symbols are handed to us from the multitude of persons that have come before, and it is from this that we build the shaky stories of the self.
This brick and mortar is common to all, living and dead.
(This is not good or bad, nor is it something to accept or reject. It just is what it is.)
Who - the creation of consciousness - is made up of what we believe, experience and share; handed to us from every direction, but absent from those moments of utter silence.
Pure, passionate aloneness.
A question may arise, "What is one to do?" The only thing one can do is find out for themselves. To sit alone, reject all that has been handed down, all that has come before, and see with new eyes, hear with new ears. Sit and sit and sit until that aloneness is all that remains.
It is not acceptance or rejection, but a silent allowing of things to arise as they will. Without acceptance or rejection, one has the ability to be silent, to be alone.
It is freedom without the need to be right, or the need to avoid being wrong.
Freedom from the need reveals a new dimension of silence.