A Part Of A Person

If anyone came to me for advice about love, about relationships, even friendships, they would be sorely disappointed. I often ask myself what the point of love is, having not distinctly felt it beyond family, it’s a hard theory to grasp.

We live in a time when individuality, being alone, liking to be alone is frowned upon. We must find a partner, someone to love, someone to share our lives with. Because if not… we have surely failed? People are apprehensive of the person who might sit at home reading, writing, enjoying the company of solitude, rather than dancing, drinking, socialising. But why? It’s understandable than one person can enjoy one thing that another could dislike, everybody understands that – music, films, people. And yet those distinctions stop when it comes to behaviour.

Why do people think it is so troublesome to spend time alone?

Sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between my true thoughts and those I tell myself I should be feeling in any normal situation. That’s the thing about love though, isn’t it? Nobody truly knows what it is or how it feels. It is a subjective phenomenon that means something completely different to each and every person.

I haven’t felt it. That is the reality. I tell myself, I’ll know it when I feel it. Thank you 500 Days of Summer. (That film’s an institution for anyone wondering!)

And yes, like all other people, I do desire to feel it – whatever it might be, and however it might come. Maybe it is one of those things that disappoints, that can never live up to all the idealistic expectation that surrounds it. And that eventually, however great at the beginning, it always falls away, waning. Maybe it is this that makes me hesitant. Yet, in reality I know it is all those other problems that rule over my days like a devil on amphetamine. It is simple this way.

My anxiety is the catalyst for all my troubles. I know that. It is not hard to see. I have never being able to get close to a person because of this. There used to be a time in the past when this thought ruined me, kept me from sleeping, kept my eyes from being dry. Now it seems nothing more than an irk, as though I have given up on the notion of closeness and intimacy. And now, at the age of twenty, I am alone. But in this sense, I have always been alone.

I sometimes wonder if it is possible to miss something you have never had.

Can I see myself in a relationship, in love? No, not in the near future. I don’t know how much time is needed to make myself ready for that. I know that before something of that magnitude can happen, I need to improve every other part of myself first.

I see it in films and read it in books. And I ask myself – what if that was me? Would I be happy? Would love solve all the things that trouble me. I am not naive enough to believe so, as much as I wish I was. But it honestly feels like I’m missing out on something important. I have this pit of loneliness inside of myself, and with every passing year it grows deeper and deeper. And at the moment it is so deep I can barely see the bottom.

I long for something to fill that.

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