Porcelain

There is a dead spot in the night when light has faded from memory—- and the hope of it returning remains a forgotten ember sheathed in ash.

Those are the moments when the past arrives unbidden. Like a raptor high above a thermal— it glides silently until its shadow is over you. The time when the creaks and groans of old timbers in the house are drowned out by half-lit memories of versions of yourself you used to be.

I remember the boy who would run hills in Southern Oregon as he struggled to feel a purpose for himself. Struggling to see past the first twenty years— and bewildered that the next years were accessible. The tense-set shoulders that framed a lean figure were seldom relaxed. I still suffered from a troubled stomach— the host of foods I couldn’t eat felt inexhaustible. But I told myself discipline would see me through. Discipline that I had somehow connected to loneliness I couldn’t shake.

I don’t think we talk about the insidious nature of loneliness- or the simple and uncomfortable fact that most grievous worlds are shockingly simple. We’re meant to be social— and when that’s restricted (internally or externally), we suffer. There’s a shame that thrives on loneliness- like a parasite that edges you closer to illness. My body would give up on me at times due to my allergies— and the feeling that it betrayed me was crushing. It pushed a sense of recklessness years later— having intimately brushed against my own mortality. Those moments were far and few— but they mark you all the same. Choking on your own saliva as you knelt on a soccer field at sixteen had been the start. An innocuous dinner of gyoza led to hours of pain and a deeper mistrust of my own body.

I’d keep myself on a tight leash— always reading every ingredient or inquiring when I didn’t know. The rest of my life felt the same way as I struggled not to be short with myself or others. In moments of energy or peace, I’d find my way to a version of myself worth being. I created an incessant drive for betterment. I looked towards the future and saw it as some nebulous haven from the present. I’d struggle towards it without giving myself rest in the present.

That’s how I accepted the supervisor position at Starbucks at twenty years old instead of focusing on my studies. I told myself that I couldn’t bear the classrooms and felt idle. In reality, I wanted to prove something to myself— and the job felt like the only place where I would gain meaningful recognition. That if I somehow worked myself to a nub, I would have done something to be proud of.

This is a harsh reflection of a time when I always enjoyed countless beautiful hikes and runs through the mountains. Where I found a measure of independence and the willful force inside of me that pushes me to continue on. It’s where I said goodbye to the first person I loved romantically— and had their voice echo through my thoughts for months after. Knowing that I had diverged from a path I had wanted— but accepted that it had never truly been an option. I hadn’t ever wanted to be with more than one person. I was too deeply a romantic for that— but you can’t live a life for another— not without grinding yourself down. And unfortunately, I already had an ailment that did that— and that willful force wouldn’t let me concede myself.

It’s as if I wanted to be romantic about being a romantic— but refused the leap of faith. Instead, I’d pull back— lapping up the waters of loneliness willingly— as if they proved my point.

I’m nearly ten years on from that version of myself. And for all that I’ve written— the most important thing to come out of that time was friendship. A friend that I’d sooner call a brother. One who, as soon as I met him, I wanted to be friends with. Like a dog with a bone— I decided we would be friends, and that was that. In the beginning, he wouldn’t use his phone. I’d send a couple of texts or calls over a month. Sometimes answered— sometimes not. But if we crossed paths in person, it was always the same warmth. The same sense of adventure, humor, stories, and kindness that marked him as a great person.

Eventually, to his chagrin, he began texting or calling back. Even now, as I live half a world away— we still talk on the phone weekly. Before I left, it was often daily and has been for years.

The loneliness we can feel comes not from a lack of people around us. It comes from a deeper sense of not being understood. It breeds this fear that it will lead to being ostracized. Or that we already have been.

And then some will tell you that to love another; you must love yourself first. I call bullshit. We don’t emerge from the womb thinking of love for ourselves. We have love for our mothers— and then our fathers. And all the warm figures that we may count in our lives. We grow through our love of others and their love of us. We learn in that way. To say that you must love yourself first is a fool’s errand. You divorce yourself from reality— and from the narrative of life.

And you can tell me you believe me to be wrong on this— and that will be okay. But I will tell you that it wasn’t through focusing on myself that I wrestled through the thorns that guarded my heart. It was in the gracious waters of others. And inviting them in— to appreciate and adore. To make oneself a piece of a bigger puzzle— as we already are.

It’s important to hold space for yourself in your heart— but that is not what fuels us. It is not the work that makes us feel worthy. Fulfillment isn’t in the quest for material objects or arbitrary milestones. The awards will not love you back. Time will not reverse to undo past hurts. There will never be a moment where you straighten everything to make it “fair.” You eschew the scales and let your love out without hesitation. It’s a zero-sum game. And that heart you possess won’t do anyone any good if you pretend it’s a porcelain doll made to rest on a shelf. Don’t let cobwebs cover what could bring light to the world.

I can’t confess to always doing as I say (though I scarcely believe anyone can), but I can see the change in myself from then to now. I have many quiet evenings on this island. What strikes me is in a few short years, I’ve felt uncommonly lucky to gain the friends and loved ones I have. I’m grateful in a way that makes me try and express it when it sits on my shoulder. I don’t take this time for granted— and I find myself unspooling the knot of muddled ambition I had as a younger man and even younger boy.

I used to believe that I had to do great things (of which those great things would be— I never knew— as I kept pushing the standards to an unattainable level). That when I finally achieved whatever obscure, unstated thing I thirsted for— I could be worthy of love. That’s what perfection and loneliness conspire to tell you. That you cannot possess fault if you are to be worthy of admiration or affection. It’s been through ordinary, community work that I’ve found the most fulfillment. It’s been supposed mundane moments with friends I’d later find a deep appreciation for. You cannot be known as an idea— especially without faults. That’s not how humans work. We are all flawed— our strengths have correlating weaknesses. All of this leads to the acceptance that it is okay to be average. That most of us are— as that’s how averages work. And there is still worthiness, love, and respect to be had. Most of our loved ones are not NASA scientists or Olympic athletes, right? And yet we would go to the ends of the earth for them. Love is and isn’t average in itself. It’s singular to our bond with another— yet everyone has and has had these bonds.

We can be afraid to admit that, partly, our love is strengthened by the fear of loss. We will lose our loved ones in some way at some point. As they will lose us. That’s a soul-clenching fear everyone can relate to— even if you do not wish to admit it. But this finitude is what makes it all worth it. If it were forever— we would list endlessly in a sea of apathy. To live is to be acqutely aware that we will die. We can feel it in our bones. We try to run from this. Hide it through work, substances, and mindless scrolling. But it’s there. As it always has been and will be.

But if you turn into it— you’ll realize it’s okay. Even death is not a permanence we are led to fear. Too much exists beyond us. Too much that we don’t, can’t, and in this form, will never know.

So if you sit alone in this moment— and have read through this piece to here. I’ll ask you— if you take a couple of moments to be free from all distractions. A couple of moments in which you sit still and breathe in and out. To realize that we can never be outside of the universe we are in. That we do not exist separately from anything that has been or will be. Do you feel alone? Or had you just forgotten to listen?