RELATIONSHIPS
One of the unlikeliest ideas we can entertain of people, especially those we are drawn to or respect, is that they might, beneath it all, be lonely. We know so much about our own sense of isolation; how it has been with us from the start, began in kindergarten, haunted us at school, didn’t quite leave us at university and has dogged us intermittently throughout our adult lives. We know how badly we ache to find an echo in others’ hearts of a range of our own fears and melancholy insights. However, we are terrified that, were we to try to unburden ourselves, we would meet with only puzzlement or jollity or changes of subject. The loneliness of others remains an abstract, almost unreal proposition. It simply doesn't seem plausible that many of the feelings of freakishness and shame we know so well might be besetting friends, acquaintances or thoughtful-looking strangers we pass by in the street. We are all such masters at conveying purpose, invulnerability, good cheer and busy-ness. We have congenital difficulties letting on about the grave difficulties of being human. What should make us feel more confident — and therefore readier to reach out to others — is that there are so many very good reasons why anyone decent might be lonely: because social life is governed by appalling pressures to lie and disguise one’s real state of mind; because the conditions of existence – fairly considered — should breed despair and misanthropy, because our ideas are far stranger but also sweeter, kinder and sillier than we know how to admit. We hold back from other people because we refuse the thought that they might be as troubled and sad as we are. What should stop us being so reserved — and at moments give us the courage to build friendships and begin love affairs — is not a sudden burst of steeliness, but a stronger conviction that everyone else is necessarily deep down as messed up and craving reassurance as we are. We might more often dare to say hello.
This article is from The School Of Life

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