​Getting old is getting lonely

In my youth, life was a reverie of sunshine, green fields, fresh air, and freedom. I recall my laughter and the laughter of my friends, joyously playing in freshly cut lawns, and running with careless abandon until our limbs ached with exhaustion, and the breath left our small bodies through frequent panting. The world possessed a sense of adventure, mystery, and vitality; there were bugs and birds, dirt and mud, leaves and trees, and a great sense of excitement at all the possibilities in life that lay before us. Under the radiant heat of the summer sun, what few troubles we had evaporated along with the sweat of our brows. This was the age of discovery and blossoming.

In the years of adolescence, life became cloudier, stiller, and more contemplative. Actions gave way to thoughts, thoughts of the present and the future; of the state of the world, and our own successes and failures. And the sense of angst that arises in the interval between childhood and maturity. And yet I still had a company of friends with whom I could experience life’s joys. These were years of brooding and questioning, not quite knowing who I was or my place in the world, but still somewhat modestly hopeful of the future.

But the passage of time, and the vicissitudes of life, led to a divergence in our trajectories. Our stars misaligned, and my world, as with the worlds of my friends, drifted farther apart, further into that great void of isolation that characterises adulthood. Through the loss of a sense of community, of belonging, of camaraderie, I live as a solitary wanderer, wandering aimlessly and alone through life’s great expanse, unaware of the purpose of my voyage or its end. ‘Friends’ are only the ghosts that haunt my memoryscape, the distant, dreamy echo of voices from a past life, long extinguished.

There does not seem to be any possibility of real connection in a world where we relate to one another as mere means to our ends, where social relations are mediated in accordance with the statuses of our jobs, or the commodities we possess or produce. We are no longer human in each other’s eyes, but tokens of value embraced while useful, and excluded when useless. This is the cold, cynical world of adulthood, which we enter upon childhood’s death, losing our innocence. In adulthood one becomes independent, aloof, and consumed with the troubles life throws in one’s way. In pursuing this independent course, we forget how interdependent we really are. I now find myself working alone, eating alone, drinking alone, and sleeping alone. I might be independent, but without my friends I am not really free.