Loneliness is one of those things you aren’t supposed to feel and many people claim 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 always necessarily through choice. I’m beginning to think this is wearing me down.
When I was in my twenties and thirties I think I quite enjoyed spending some time alone. Eating dinner, watching TV, reading books and pottering around my flat certainly didn’t bother me the way it bothers some people. Perhaps at the back of my mind was the idea that all this was leading somewhere though it turned out that it wasn’t; just to more of the same. I’m now beginning to feel like Robert De Niro’s character in The Intern prior to his internship: un-needed, superfluous and running out of time. He was alone because he was a widower. I have no such excuse.
I think I am reasonably good at making friends since I am actually quite interested in other people. It’s just that I am too fussy about how I spend my precious time; I often get restless in company if we aren’t doing much. Then I want to be at home reading or doing something useful. I am a bit of a miser when it comes to time.
There is also the small matter of my nasty right-wing views, which I find impossible to keep to myself and which drive some people away. Still, friendship probably requires vaguely compatible world views so I suppose nothing is lost. And there must surely be plenty of people out there who do share my views. I should probably try to meet more of them, as well as being open to squandering rather than hoarding time. Or just finding a good woman to marry would probably solve everything.