We’ve got everything we could possibly want to occupy our time. There is no excuse for us to ever feel bored or lonely or wasteful. There’s Netflix, video games, porn of all kinds (now in virtual reality), clubs and bars, hell we still have books. So why doesn’t this change anything? Why don’t these things fill the voids within our chests?

It’s because loneliness is a state of being that transcends time and space and Flappy Bird. I believe that we flock to cities, not for the culture, but for the distraction. Among thousands of honking cars and seas of people what you won’t find is a cemetery. The fast paced nature of the environment is in itself a way of avoiding the inevitability of death that haunts us.

For me, going to the country is a deeply cathartic practice, as it forces me to face what I had previously been intentionally or passively forgetting. The trees and marshes and rotting forests;their decay serves as a constant reminder of the claim this world has on our lives from the day we’re born.

After around 72 hours in my apartment without leave I received a phone call from a friend asking to meet up some time in the following days. It was then I realized that I didn’t really hate people. It was just easier to justify being cold to them if they were under the impression that I’m not a people person. It was a way to maintain a selfish lifestyle and reject responsibility for the feelings of those who consider me a friend.

I think to be given the title of ‘friend’ has been too much pressure for me. Any situation in which someone got their hopes or expectations up for me is an area in which I’ve systematically failed to step up to the plate. The crushing fear of disappointing someone has prevented me from ever putting myself in the position to fail, and subsequently, to make them happy or proud.

So instead I’ve isolated myself from any true form of connection or relationship, only ever allowing those around me to brush the surface, so as to not let anyone get close enough to see that I don’t really have anything to offer.

For years I’ve played the distant, quiet, mostly shy writer guy who’d sooner drink alone then go to his own birthday party. This has led to people getting a false sense of knowing the ‘real me’ when I have moments of fun and candor with them. It’s like having a friendly cat but you tell your friends that it usually hates people so that when they come over and the cat instinctually cuddles them they feel extra special. When people feel like they’re the ones who got you out of the house it makes them feel special and I let them have that.

The reality is that as much fun as I may or may not seem to be having at whatever event I’m at, I feel the same. I felt the same on the way over. And I felt the same when I got home. I’d like to say that the missing component is human connection, but any girl I’ve dated will testify that I’m not any different in a relationship. The only difference is that I get to fool myself into believing that my life has a purpose.

I’ve ruined so many good things by being this way but despite how hurt people have been at the hand of my disregard I’ve never made any significant steps to changing. And I still don’t feel any inspiration to do so. I don’t like who I am but at least it is who I am. I could pretend to be the happy-go-lucky guy who has quips and anecdotes that handles his liquor well but then I’d just be some other shmuck. And I bet I wouldn’t feel any happier.

I leave my apartment and see people, couples, friends going out, and I wonder what they’re all hiding. They must have been hurt before, it’s the way of life. How can they smile? Are they actually happy or are they forcing it? Or are all the other lonely people just inside?

My life has been occupied by replacing one new thing with the next. If it wasn’t a girl then it was a different girl. When it wasn’t working out it was school. When it wasn’t writing it was drinking. I was always convinced that I was on the final step towards happiness. Never realizing that I was looking for a handle in a room with no doors.

Only for so long can you put the thoughts of the day away because sooner or later the sun falls and you lay awake recounting every misstep and error in your conversations. You think back on every mistake and blank face and cringe on the things you said. You only win arguments in your head under the falling water of a shower that’s always either way too hot or just not hot enough. Your life can be defined by Mama and Papa bears’ porridge.

You think about how so few people call or write to you and remember that you’ve never given anyone a reason to want to. You drown off shore as you watch sun bathers fornicate and laugh as if they aren’t living in the same gross world as you. Are they foolish for not recognizing it? Or are they smart enough to have realized that life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be but are putting on a brave face and having fun while they still can? Well if they’re not dumb then they must be fake.

That’s the justification that gets a deppressimist through the day. ‘At least I’m honest.’ Everything that comes our way is the glacier that sunk the Titanic. We’re not Titanic. We’re nothing. We’re the deflated life vest on the guy who falls and hits the propeller at the end of the movie.

Admitting you need help feels too weak, asking for it feels too gay, and calling it gay makes you feel guilty. It’s a vicious cycle, it really is. I’ve gone back and forth on blaming it on growing up on the East Coast; being raised to be tough. But I know that isn’t true. I was given more than enough tools to build myself into a happy young adult and instead I did nothing. I sat and wrote sappy poetry about girls who didn’t like me until they did like me and then inevitably wrote poems about girls who used to like me.

I wonder a lot about what I’d write about if I actually had anything to write about. I fear that this longing for something or nothing is the only driving force in my words; and that if one day I do reach the feeling of being content I’ll be speechless. And then I’ll truly have nothing. Nothing besides loving caring people that I continuously take for granted whose patience is running out.

The alternative is to pour my insides out on to the pavement and stare at them as they steam in the winter cold. I wouldn't be too broken up about it if that's what I was remembered for. Hell. I'd be happy just to be remembered.