To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen.
With the wild flock that never needs a fold:
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold
Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’d
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flatter’d, follow’d, sought, and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude.
Perhaps this belongs to a different age, but going into nature always has revitalizing effects on me. I take a partner of any sort ("a friend in my retreat / Whom I may whisper -- solitude is sweet"), when
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
When I grew tired of the moving, busy scene of city life which I had inhabited all my life, I solved my "identity crisis" of sorts with a brief sojourn into pastoral scenery, and a volume of Wordsworth's poetry:
Remote from the passions and events of the great world, he has communicated interest and dignity to the primal movements of the heart of man, and ingrafted his own conscious reflections on the casual thoughts of hinds and shepherds. Nursed amidst the grandeur of mountain scenery, he has stooped to have a nearer view of the daisy under his feet, or plucked a branch of white-thorn from the spray: but in describing it, his mind seems imbued with the majesty and solemnity of the objects around him—the tall rock lifts its head in the erectness of his spirit; the cataract roars in the sound of his verse; and in its dim and mysterious meaning, the mists seem to gather in the hollows of Helvellyn, and the forked Skiddaw hovers in the distance.
It may depend on temperament; but I have inherited Wordsworth's as of late:
[T]he evident scope and tendency of Mr. Wordsworth's mind is the reverse of dramatic. It resists all change of character, all variety of scenery, all the bustle, machinery, and pantomime of the stage, or of real life, -- whatever might relieve, or relax, or change the direction of its own activity, jealous of all competition. The power of his mind preys upon itself. It is as if there were nothing, but himself and the universe. He lives in the busy solitude of his own heart; in the deep silence of thought. His imagination lends life and feeling only to "the bare trees and mountains bare;" peoples the viewless tracts of air, and converses with the silent clouds!
I say, seek things that speak to the "depth, and not the tumult, of the soul". Don't be distracted by the tumult of the vulgar herd -- who cares about them? No need to watch television, to seek them out on the Internet, to have any contact with them.
Staying occupied is the most important thing. "To fill the hour -- that is happiness." It depends entirely on your interests. You could do physical work, read, play a video game, start binge-watching a television show or films, anything. Once a day or two has passed you'll probably feel much better, and can tackle life again. If you need a constant companion, a musical instrument is always great. I use Harmonicas (which are well suited to elegiac sentiments!) but anything works.