The Old Pangs of Ancient Apartness

I guess I’m doing better these days. I can’t really tell, to be honest.

But the old pangs of ancient apartness haven’t been stinging me so hard. I suppose I have Zoloft to thank for that.

It occurred to me as I was walking home from work this afternoon that I was walking home from work this afternoon. Nothing more, nothing less. My mind was not preoccupied with the recent loss of a loved one, or with toying thoughts of what I would be doing if I had someone to whom I was walking home from work.

I was just walking home from work.

Of course, there’s Evan. He’s always here when I get home, cross-legged, watching movies on his bedroom floor because the cats have cordoned off his tiny twin bed for themselves.

The other morning he and I spoke at length about how we’ve resigned ourselves to being alone in our mid-thirties. Because it’s true – we’ve resigned ourselves. Given in. Which isn’t to say we’ve “given up”; rather, we just accept it.

And keep walking.

I suppose I have Zoloft to thank for that too.

Because the old pangs of ancient apartness aren’t here anymore to torture me with notions that I’ll always be alone, I’ll always be alone, I’ll always be alone.

I don’t think I could even conjure the pangs if I tried.

Again, I think I have Zoloft to thank for that.

The only problem that surfaces these days – and it does so more than I’m comfortable with, to be honest – is the thought that one morning I’ll wake up and think, “No, no, this is terrible too.”

 

 

 

 

 

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