LoneIt is Christmas Eve and I am on my own. I am not out drinking; I have no one to drink with. I am not at a dinner party; I have no one to eat with. I am not with friends; I have no friends.
You think, when you are not lonely, that loneliness is something a person chooses. But that is solitude, the thing you choose, and rarely does anyone choose it, given that we are social animals.
Make friends. It is the obvious prescription. But how do you make them? They are not stories you tell. They are collaborative works and you must find people who want to collaborate with you.
Isn't it true, if you want friendship to be more than the merest acquaintance, that they must be something like you?
But who is like me? Who here is like me? Who here who is like me could ever find me and I find them?
I have always felt -- and I don't know but I think this is not the same for others -- that I am here and the world is there. That I exist within a prescribed space and the outside world only now and then reaches in. And I have always feared a little what is there.
But all things in life are bearable if you think they will, or even can, get better. It's only when you don't think so that life has stopped entirely to be good.