Being alone so much, I tend to forget life is one of the performing arts.
I try to console myself with the idea that any happiness resting upon the existence of others remains vulnerable.
But it doesn’t help my loneliness.
Life feels like a club from which I have been barred.
This starts me musing on the chance nature of love: wherever people are, with someone they happen to meet.
Except for myself.
Wherever I am, whoever I meet, love never occurs.
I suppose a frame of drama around oneself suits the ego. To imagine others perceive us with great arcs of opinion, rather than as bit players on the set of their reality.
Then my mind wanders to what future archaeologists will make of us on the basis of our pottery. And I realise the previous thread has been lost.
I had a feeling like knocking on my own door.
Even though I was already inside.