On Lonliness (?)

I'm glad FB is not there. There's still a circuit that emits sparks sometimes: that would be nice to post etc (and it's been all of twelve hours I've been off it: yay me!). But it's good to come back to actual writing. Not meaningless clever (or not) one liners to the applause (or not) of the general 'peanut crunching' audience. It's such a performance. So is this of a sort. And a part of me had been afraid to write here (as opposed to the secret blog) because the address was so visible on FB. I like to think of this space as a cosy nook where few friends come to visit me occasionally.

So he was sitting at the corner table. Small eyes, high cheekbones, stocky of build. Strong jawline, knuckles and veined hands but not in an unhealthy way like that thin man in tram the other day who spoke too loudly). He wasn't especially dressed up. Neither in suits like the baled man at the bar stool nor subtly underdressed (though speaking volumes/enough about their social status, I presume) like the more casual younger frequenters at Murphy's Law. He was drinking tea. In a bar full of stout drinkers. With LOUD live jazz performance. Our table was full. He kept glancing at us. I guess it's not very polite in these parts to stare/glance/observe? Anyway some people thought of inviting him over but he was embarrassed and averted his gaze. The others resumed talking but I was observing him. I felt a sort of affinity for him. Maybe we were the only ones not drinking alcohol. I had finished my orange juice five minutes within serving. Maybe that's impolite too. As well as toasting with an empty glass.

He looked lonely. I felt a bit lonely. Somehow I couldn't stop jerking my knees non stop the whole time I was there. As if waiting for an ordeal to be over. But it was pleasant enough. The music, the people, the conversation. While I was gathering up my coat and preparing to pay a 2.5 E bill with my card (I have had no cash since the day I went to Rotterdam. Only functioning through credit. Hah! neoclassicals) I heard him ask the saxophonist where they were for. I liked him even more. It seemed like such a pathetic half hearted attempt at small talk. I might be imagining all this of course. Transposing my feelings.

However, I often enjoy being alone. In fact the most tranquil moments, moments of delight at discovery, of joy has to be somehow experienced alone. Not just the joy (not) of actually seeing Van Gogh self portraits in a crowded museum but also the excitement, torment of falling in love, for instance. The feel of a new city. The sound of a shutter clicking and looking at the display screen to find a perfect shot.

At the same time my unhappiest moments have also been the loneliest. This awareness of lonely, alone in the world sort of orphaned abandoned feeling is also probably the crux of, the most rarified form of unhappiness. Paradoxically reminds me of the advert from a Bangla newspaper going viral over FB right now. FB: that continuous immersion of the self in the collective.

I'm glad to be back here. The white blank blogger template and me in front of my keyboards filling up that space.