Loneliness is one of those things you aren’t supposed to feel. Some people insist they are alone, not lonely. Yet recently I have realised that I am lonely. I spend far too much time in my own company and not necessarily through choice and I think it is wearing me down.
When I was in my twenties and thirties I quite enjoyed spending time alone. Eating dinner, watching TV, reading books and pottering around my flat didn’t bother me the way it bothers some people. Perhaps at the back of my mind was the idea that it was all leading to something: a big romance, a family, something like that. Unfortunately it turned out that it leading to just more of the same. I now feel like Robert De Niro’s character in The Intern prior to his internship: un-needed, superfluous and getting old. At least he was alone because he was a widower. I have no such excuse.
I think I am reasonably good at making friends and am quite interested in other people. Yet I have over time become a bit curmudgeonly and also a bit fussy about how I spend my time; I get restless in the wrong company or if I feel we are just killing time. Then I want to be at home reading or doing something, anything useful.
There is also the small matter of my nasty right-wing views which turn many people off but which I find impossible to keep to myself. Still, friendship probably requires vaguely compatible views so perhaps nothing is really lost by scaring away those who think very differently to me. The friends I do have are scattered around the world and I rarely see them: Peru, Spain, Japan and Germany. Maybe I should get out more and make some new friends. Or move back to Spain. Or just find a nice lady to marry.