February came and went as fast as it always does, but my–frankly absurd–amount of downtime allowed me to enjoy the month pretty thoroughly.

I’ve been having thoughts about people lately. Being so isolated with nothing to do but watch the snow melt and pile back up makes me antsy for society, even though I'm typically a fairly solitary person. The power went out a few days ago, leaving me with little to do besides read and play piano by candlelight, and think and think and think. Winter always makes me dream about the most primal aspects of a community. Something about sitting in front of a flame with a hot meal, maybe? I’ve been filling up my time with books and essays, curating lists to hold me over until I’m able to go into the city again.

This month I’ve read:

A Game of Thrones, author George R.R. Martin

On Being Ill, author Virginia Woolf

Severance, author Ling Ma

Possession, author A.S. Byatt

I won’t bother to rate the works–some things just can’t be quantified in my mind. Despite my hesitance to share my opinions on the works specifically, I will allow myself this: all of the pieces I read this month explored various facets of being outcast. Jon Snow, A Game of Thrones’s sullen, neglected bastard, views his isolation with resentment–a blockade in the way of everything he wants. Ling Ma’s Candace Chen, the narrator of Severance, craves to be a part of the “in-group,” but is unwilling to be forthcoming–sabotaging her own relationships. Roland Mitchell and Maud Bailey of Possession are isolated by their devotion to their work and find solace in each other. Virginia Woolf’s essay On Being Ill examines the transcendental mental and spiritual growth that can occur when isolated due to illness.

It was not a conscious choice, on my part, to spend the whole month reading about loneliness, but I am better for it. I do identify with many of these characters and their plights, despite my very comfortable life. There is something primitively, innately human about wanting to be around others, to be accepted and celebrated. Community isn’t exactly something I’ve been lacking–I’ve got a close-knit family and a tiny, tight handful of friends–but being sick for so long sets you apart from the general population in a way that’s hard to describe.

Virginia Woolf’s essay is certainly correct–in my opinion–illness and isolation do bring out a strange sort of candidness in you. Illness has allowed me to shed all pretenses and examine things with a more sober mind, in a way I haven’t since I was very young. If I had been less clear-headed, less opinionated, or less exhausted, I might have indulged in self-pity, as I tended to do in previous winters when the house felt too small and the snow too heavy. This year was different. Maybe because I’m older and my frontal lobe is developing, or maybe because self-pity seems naive in a time like this.

I’ve always held the opinion that dwelling too much on yourself–positively or negatively–clouds your judgment. Being sick has stripped me of my ego and reduced me to a simpler version of myself, and I cannot find it in me to hate it. This rawness of self has shifted my perspective, broken me from the ouroboros circle of my thoughts, and turned my attention towards the people around me. I’ve never been one to fantasize about romance, friendship, or love, but lately I’ve been dreaming about sisterhood.

I tend to proselytize in my writing, but if there is one thing I could preach forever, it would be the importance of sisterhood in our society. To find women who are ambitious, compassionate, supportive, and open isn’t hard, per se. It’s easy to find kind women. To find women who dig into you, who want to understand you, and see you succeed? That’s another thing entirely. The world seems so turned against us sometimes. To share the burden with your sisters–metaphorical or literal–provides so much relief.

There’s something reassuring about being one of many.