Joy of being alive

She was certain that there was only one joy in life, and that was to love and to be loved completely. However, as she lay sprawled out on the grass underneath the sun, squinting and breathing in deeply and slowly, she knew that her time would never come. And that a life without love was not a life worth living.

She continued through her days hopeful that her time would come, that she would meet someone who would love her unconditionally and with all his might, but a part of her – a quite big part, at that – knew that it would never happen. She knew that she would meet boys and men and that they would be together briefly, and lie to each other in the dead of night, whispering that they loved each other oh, so much, but she knew better than anyone else that it would soon end. And they would go on with their separate lives.

And somewhere, not far from her, there was a man with the same conviction. He spent his days reading books and playing music he loved, and every time he finished reading a book or playing a song, he would sit back and sigh, with the conviction that heroes and heroines may fall in love all they want, and musicians and artists will have their muses and their lovers and will live joyfully with the knowledge that someone, somewhere loves them, but he knew that would never happen to him.

And they lived their lives separately, unaware of each other’s existence, quietly suffering because of this conviction.

They once bumped on each other at a park, while he listened to music and she observed the colourful birds above her, and each mumbled an apology.

And for a moment, they locked gazes and for a moment, they knew. They knew they believed in the same thing, they knew that they were both loveless beings with the constant fear of dying alone. For a moment, they yearned to hold onto each other, to comfort each other; to allow each other to weep in desolation, for they both knew that they were destined for a lonely life.

But it was only for a moment. A flash of recognition, of understanding. For a moment, she wished to grab onto his t-shirt and yell, “I know how you feel!” and he craved to grab her hands and touch his forehead to hers, whispering that they would be fine, that being alone wasn’t so bad, to share for a few brief moments the notion that they both knew so well they were bound for loneliness.

But it was only for a moment. A flash of recognition, of understanding. He nodded at her, and she stared dazed at him, before moving on with their lives.

It was only a moment, a moment they shared. For a brief moment, they were not so lonely. For a brief moment, they were together and they would both remember for the rest of their lives that moment for what it had truly been. He would remember the sorrowful gaze of a young blonde girl, who was far too young to be so filled with such anguish. He would remember her dainty hands forming fists, and her catching her breath. She would remember a man with gloom surrounding his every move. She would remember his widened eyes.

They would remember that, for a brief moment, they had loved each other deeply and unconditionally. They would remember that, for a brief moment, they had not been so alone. And for that moment, being alive was not so painful.

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