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@ ODILI ONUOHA
2025-05-28 05:22:33In a quiet village nestled between forest and field, lived a boy named Ezekiel. From birth, he was surrounded by a warm family, playful siblings, and neighbors who always had a story to share. Ezekiel never knew silence, and because of that, he never valued voices. To him, connection was like air everywhere, constant, and unnoticed.
One summer, Ezekiel decided to explore the woods beyond the hills, chasing the thrill of adventure. He wandered farther than he ever had, until the trees thickened and the path thinned into nothing. A sudden storm rolled in. Rain blurred the forest, and Ezekiel lost his way. He sought shelter in a small, abandoned stone hut beside a dried-up well.
The storm passed, but no path appeared. Days turned to weeks. His voice echoed off the stone, unanswered. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was heavy, like a weight pressing on his soul. He learned to survive on roots and rainwater. But loneliness is true, aching loneliness clung to him. He spoke to the walls, to the trees, to the echo in the well, but nothing replied.
One day, while resting against the well, Ezekiel whispered, “I miss them.”
And for the first time, he meant it.
Not just missed their presence but their interruptions, their noise, even their complaints. He missed being seen, and seeing. He understood now: connection wasn’t just comfort. It was color, depth, meaning.
Weeks later, a group of searchers found him thin, dirty, but alive. When he returned, everything was the same, but Ezekiel was not.
He listened differently. Hugged longer. Remembered people’s names, stories, and silences. He no longer saw connection as a given, but a gift.
And every year, he visited the well not to mourn the solitude, but to thank it. For in its quiet, he learned the true value of every voice he once ignored.
Moral: To cherish connection, you must understand solitude not as punishment, but as teacher.