Solitude of being

I just finished reading the mermaid chair by Sue Monk Kidd. I think everyone feels this way some time or other.

My life had started to go stagnant, like it was atrophied. Everything shrunk down to the rules I played. I loved doing them but they were drying up and they weren't really me. I felt like there had to be some other life beneath the one I had, like a river or something and that I would die if I didn't dig down to it. Back there, somewhere, I'd lost that solitude of being that told me who I was. The whole mystery of myself.