Coming Home to Solitude — Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Zarathustra returns to his mountain home and speaks to solitude like a mother he left and now misses. Solitude smiles and scolds and knows his whole story. It reminds him of hard moments: standing lost beside a corpse, giving until he sat thirsty among the drunk, and hearing a voice that said speak and give up. That was forsakenness, not the same as the chosen peace he finds now.

Among people he had to hide his riches and soften his words. He sat with poisonous flies, especially the so-called good people who wanted gentle treatment, not truth. Pity taught him to lie. He wore masks so others could endure him, and the noise below drowned out deep thought. Shopkeepers in the market could out-jingle any bell of wisdom. Everything was talked to death and nothing sank into deep wells anymore.

In the mountains everything is open and clear. He can speak to nature without shame and ride every simile toward truth. Time feels lighter in the light. He breathes mountain air and sneezes with joy, free from human hubbub. He learned that forgetting and passing by are sometimes the wisest move. His greatest danger was always pity, but now he is home with himself again.