I miss being in love. The feeling that saves you in the morning, one minute after you awaken into a mundane day. That stomach-clenching, gut-wrenching, breath-stopping, cliche-spewing sensation that surprises you often. That nervous, embarassing cloud that surrounds you and feels strangely good. I miss it.

No. Missing being in love is just loneliness, the lonely of not having a dream to inspire and carry you over life’s utter mundanity. It isn’t quite that, even if I am lonely.

I miss how easy it used to be to fall in love. I miss its effortlessness. I miss not even knowing that it could be an effort.

I feel my age now. In my body, some, yes. But mostly in this tiredness. I worry more about being hurt. Whether my sentiments are reciprocated or not matter more to me now than they ever did. And even if I now know I will survive heartache and pain, I just don’t feel I have the patience for it anymore.

What do you when you tire of the effort of living, when you don’t know if you have the will any more for the very thing that makes life, worth living? You start to get old, to decay.

Last month, I injured my foot and sustained a fracture. I pushed myself, my independent self, into diagnosis, medication and healing. Then I strapped on an ugly bandage, unwieldy boots and a grim look to face my days’ schedule. I’ve been alone the past few weeks.

Exactly one friend checked in on me. The others were busy, caught up in their own lives and my family was out of the country. I asked myself if I was being heroic. Indeed I have that flashy, drama queen streak to me. But this wasn’t it. There is no glory in surviving a lone existance.

I wanted to see what the rest of my life was going to look like. Here’s what I found. A steady, peaceable existance, devoid of drama or much fluctuations. I barely noticed when day turned to night and vice versa. I didn’t hurt, didn’t worry, didn’t frown, didn’t nothing.

The house is full again and I have complete mobility now. Nothing stops me from going out and meeting people now. And in two days I’ve experienced hurt, awkwardness, discomfort, worry, irritation, anger and bitterness. I don’t like my city, don’t feel home here. My social circle makes me restless, not invigorated. And living feels like such an effort all over again. I think I’m better off cocooned in complete solitude than a world devoid of the chance for love.

9 thoughts on “Love Is Such An Effort These Days”
  1. I had told my friend that she would not remember about me as she finished her studies and as she began work, but as life slowed down and her mind was no longer into new things. I bet she does now.

    I did miss someone, but it wasn’t her.

    I guess it is more to do with how low you feel before you just stop yourself and your pride kicks in so much that you start breaking rules again. You just discover yourself again some day and are willing to take risks again.

    I think I was missing myself.

  2. Your post really touches a chord. What you say is so true, and in fact this is the kind of lonely life my novel’s protagonist lives everyday (imagine!). If you are really interested I can send you a free copy. πŸ˜‰

  3. Loneliness is the worst form of pain, and I felt your pain while I was reading this post. Probably, this is why this is such a beautiful piece of writing. I wrote ‘The Agony of Age’ a few days ago, but I feel your post deserves that title more than mine does.
    Wish you get friends who would stay with you for life. All the best. πŸ™‚

    1. @Lumographer: Ah, the agony of age! It’s not really as dramatic as that. And perhaps that’s what’s most painful – realizing how mundane, how inconsequential things are, your world is, you are. So the events get harder and your response gets tinier.

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