I’m right where you left me

What was once the salve is now the wound

It’s all about intentionality, isn’t it? You wake up every day determined to maintain love, to keep its stream flowing through your heart, and if you don’t, it’ll dry up. I am in a drought. I have never felt lonelier than I do now, and it’s my fault.

I suppose I have my long list of films, the holy scripture (Das Kapital), and all my failed hobbies to keep me company, but they are poor substitutes for platonic intimacy, which I crave so deeply, I feel an ache in my chest. Abbas Kiarostami and Akira Kurosawa, Marx’s argument for the labour theory of value, and bonsai shears, paintbrushes, journals, V60s, and clay are good distractions, they don’t come close to loving someone fundamentally as a person.

In primary and high school, I had groups of friends about which I forgot once I left the space. Do I have issues with object permanence? Perhaps. I think of them fondly from time to time but barely talk to them, barring the occasional birthday DM on Instagram. Strange to think that they were once my closest confidantes and now I don’t even know the people they’ve become. It hurts to say it, but I suppose we were just friends for the sake of convenience. Maybe that’s ultra-pessimistic, and we actually had some sort of platonic bond, but that fizzled out years ago and simply could not stand the test of space and time.

Like most people, I made my closest friends at university, where I still am but they no longer are. In some ways, I am right where they left me, aimlessly wandering up and down Yale Road (not a bad thing, I’m getting my steps in), but this comes with a sort of stagnation. Academically, I have progressed and now wield a staff card as opposed to a student card, but it still feels as though they have moved on and I have not.

I no longer have friends at university (not sure if I should count my ex, a fellow PhD candidate), the students who call me ‘ma’am’, a supervisor whose emails I forget to reply to (read: ignore), and the barista who knows my coffee order. My little brother will be starting university next year, but I can’t imagine he’d want to hang out with his older sister between classes.

My friends are either married, employed, or both, experiencing the real world without me. I wish them all the best, of course, but some part of me can’t help but feel as though they’ve forgotten about me. Does that make me pathetic? Yes, it does. Is that a bad thing? No, it’s not. ‘Pathetic’ comes from the Greek, ‘pathētikos’, meaning sensitive. I’m allowed to feel things, I’m a Pisces and also a human being.

In a world where people are friends with ChatGPT, I am so very grateful for my friends. For every coffee, every meal, every walk around the park. Every moment spent with them shines, but a gnawing feeling insists that a rift is growing between us, and with each day that passes, the chasm grows wider. Time between coffees grows longer, time spent sipping those coffees grows shorter.

Every other text is ‘let’s catch up soon’, or ‘let’s do something’, and although these sometimes come to fruition, they sometimes don’t, and months pass without me seeing friends I once saw almost every day.

What do I do with all the love I have? With all the love I want to pour into my friendships but can’t? I certainly won’t be giving it to myself.

Friendships were once a salve but are now a wound. Not a life-threatening wound, but a small bruise, purple in the centre and turning yellow around the edges. I suppose I gave it to myself, but surely this isn’t my fault. I blame capitalism, the passage of time, and a crumbling society – rightfully so.

Anyway, I don’t really know what this piece is about, but I do know that I am deeply lonely and ache for something, anything, to set fire to the unburnt side of my soul.