Loneliness can be terrifying.
Even the most common everyday things, like loading clothes in the washing machine or making tea, seem meaningful and enjoyable if you have someone to do it with or for. If there is someone sitting in the next room for you to call out to or share the tea with. If you’re alone, you see the dirty clothes piling up, and it seems like a difficult and pointless chore.
With the Guy away for the weekend, I have been forcing myself to live normally. I had been looking forward to the solitude, to time to think, to be by myself. But the house seems so silent, the bed so empty. Yet I have been doing pretty well, I think. I made myself tea in the morning, washed a load of clothes, and cooked a simple lunch. I had intended to do some writing, but my mind refuses to think.
I find it strange that I have got so used to togetherness when I used to be so lonely. I was a lonely child and a lonely teenager. I had lots of friends, but no one to share my inner world with, which is probably why I liked writing. It’s only for the last two years that I have someone with whom I not only spend most of my time, but also share most of my thoughts. For an intensely private person like me, it is surprising to find that being with one particular person is as comfortable, and much more fun, than being with myself. Only rarely does it become slightly claustrophobic, and a few hours apart seems sufficient to cure that.
Here’s to two years of a thrilling, liberating, intoxicating, yet peaceful journey!
nice post :)
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