Valentine's Day Musings On Happiness & Loneliness
I used to write beautifully on my blog, but then I must have gotten lazy or something, I'm not quite sure what happened. I hope that laziness hasn't transmitted itself into my fiction writing too; that would be disastrous. I guess what I'm saying is: I'm just going to try to be a little bit more careful -- neater punctuation, more easily flowing word-use.
I have a few words to say on loneliness today. Nothing groundbreaking or original, but a few personal observations. Loneliness seems to manifest itself in different ways: sometimes it appears as boredom and others just a panging, inexplicable sadness. I notice now that every sad feeling is, by degrees, a form of loneliness. I mean, the poor can retain feelings of joviality, so long as they are surrounded by loved ones and can freely express or be distracted from the things that would otherwise internally torment them; though it would certainly benefit them greatly, they do not need material wealth to feel positively. (I'm not talking about those in abject, third-world poverty, by the way; that is a status so distanced from me that it would be dishonest for me to attempt to truly extrapolate on it -- part of me feels as though absolute despair would reign, but who am I to say that even in such situations, the company of loved ones doesn't balm the situation?)
No, material wealth is a form of potential happiness that could be transformed into actual happiness, if used right, but it guarantees nothing. A true guarantee for happiness or sadness, it seems to me, is companionship. If you feel you lack companionship, you will feel the many variations of sadness that are borne from it (ennui, emptiness, longing, nostalgia, impatience, frustration); while if you have it, you will feel at the least contented, and at the most blissful.
Incidentally, I'm not suggesting that you must always have company in order to be happy: no, you can be alone and be perfectly satisfied; I simply mean that one must carry the assured notion within them that they have companions, friends that would be there for them if need be, then they will be happy.
This is why romantic love is such a desirable thing in western culture: our notion of romantic love is mostly trenched in the accompanying notion of monogamy and fidelity -- to be in a relationship meets the criteria for being happy excellently: you have a companion, and you feel as though they are there for you specifically. Naturally there may be all sorts of problems in a relationship that jeopardises this, but a good one will certainly make you happy, and so you should not feel bad for wanting romantic love.
However, it's important to note that that is not the only way. Friendships exist, can be easier to obtain, and may produce the same effects of being in a good relationship, although it may be more difficult to produce these effects from a friendship than a relationship, due to the nature of each of them (i.e. as said, most western relationships have the properties of monogamy and fidelity, while friendships don't have such properties -- your friends can usually be friends with anybody else without jeopardising their relation with you, and you might not feel they're there for you specifically, as is more likely in a romantic relationship). Still, friendships are important and it is certainly another way of being happy.
I think, personally, that I have a few strong friendships (and many weaker ones), but sometimes I don't feel as though I have any strong enough ones to make me happy. Let's take my two closest friends: the one only messages me occasionally nowadays and I rarely see her, so I do feel quite distanced from her, and the other is a brilliant friend, we talk and meet frequently, but our relation seems to be such that it's never entirely open. We joke, we discuss, we share interests, but we have never gotten to that stage wherein we can say anything -- some points of discussion will seem strange/inappropriate between us. That's just how our friendship has evolved. It's built on humour, discussion, and shared interests, but not so much on deeper emotion -- which is completely fine by me, but you do begin to notice it when you don't have anybody else to share that part of you with, and it begins to erode you within. I appreciate our friendship immensely and, like I said, it would feel weird to have that deep emotional aspect between us, but it doesn't mean I wouldn't like it in another friendship, or--by mercy--a relationship.
So it's today, on my 17th Valentine's Day, that I confirm to myself that companionship is the key to happiness (money being potential happiness only), and that to be lacking in it is to be sad.
This Valentine's Day wasn't entirely lonesome because I spent the majority of the day with two friends, but it's towards the end of the day, as I sit in my room alone, feeling bored, and then confused at why I'm bored (why should I be bored? There's a plethora of things to do on the internet), that I realise I'm not entirely contented, for I am partially lonely.
There's no use just complaining, I imagine my blog would respond if it had a voice. What good does that do you?
To which I respond: I'm not complaining; I'm merely observing and understanding. I now know that to be happy I must build stronger friendships, if not get in a relationship (which is difficult and not likely any time soon, I don't think). I must keep the ones that I like now and in the future, when the opportunity arises (I'm alluding, hopefully, to university), I must make new and great ones to accompany and compliment the ones I already have; to fill and patch up that sense of emptiness that occasionally lingers.
I have a few words to say on loneliness today. Nothing groundbreaking or original, but a few personal observations. Loneliness seems to manifest itself in different ways: sometimes it appears as boredom and others just a panging, inexplicable sadness. I notice now that every sad feeling is, by degrees, a form of loneliness. I mean, the poor can retain feelings of joviality, so long as they are surrounded by loved ones and can freely express or be distracted from the things that would otherwise internally torment them; though it would certainly benefit them greatly, they do not need material wealth to feel positively. (I'm not talking about those in abject, third-world poverty, by the way; that is a status so distanced from me that it would be dishonest for me to attempt to truly extrapolate on it -- part of me feels as though absolute despair would reign, but who am I to say that even in such situations, the company of loved ones doesn't balm the situation?)
No, material wealth is a form of potential happiness that could be transformed into actual happiness, if used right, but it guarantees nothing. A true guarantee for happiness or sadness, it seems to me, is companionship. If you feel you lack companionship, you will feel the many variations of sadness that are borne from it (ennui, emptiness, longing, nostalgia, impatience, frustration); while if you have it, you will feel at the least contented, and at the most blissful.
Incidentally, I'm not suggesting that you must always have company in order to be happy: no, you can be alone and be perfectly satisfied; I simply mean that one must carry the assured notion within them that they have companions, friends that would be there for them if need be, then they will be happy.
This is why romantic love is such a desirable thing in western culture: our notion of romantic love is mostly trenched in the accompanying notion of monogamy and fidelity -- to be in a relationship meets the criteria for being happy excellently: you have a companion, and you feel as though they are there for you specifically. Naturally there may be all sorts of problems in a relationship that jeopardises this, but a good one will certainly make you happy, and so you should not feel bad for wanting romantic love.
However, it's important to note that that is not the only way. Friendships exist, can be easier to obtain, and may produce the same effects of being in a good relationship, although it may be more difficult to produce these effects from a friendship than a relationship, due to the nature of each of them (i.e. as said, most western relationships have the properties of monogamy and fidelity, while friendships don't have such properties -- your friends can usually be friends with anybody else without jeopardising their relation with you, and you might not feel they're there for you specifically, as is more likely in a romantic relationship). Still, friendships are important and it is certainly another way of being happy.
I think, personally, that I have a few strong friendships (and many weaker ones), but sometimes I don't feel as though I have any strong enough ones to make me happy. Let's take my two closest friends: the one only messages me occasionally nowadays and I rarely see her, so I do feel quite distanced from her, and the other is a brilliant friend, we talk and meet frequently, but our relation seems to be such that it's never entirely open. We joke, we discuss, we share interests, but we have never gotten to that stage wherein we can say anything -- some points of discussion will seem strange/inappropriate between us. That's just how our friendship has evolved. It's built on humour, discussion, and shared interests, but not so much on deeper emotion -- which is completely fine by me, but you do begin to notice it when you don't have anybody else to share that part of you with, and it begins to erode you within. I appreciate our friendship immensely and, like I said, it would feel weird to have that deep emotional aspect between us, but it doesn't mean I wouldn't like it in another friendship, or--by mercy--a relationship.
So it's today, on my 17th Valentine's Day, that I confirm to myself that companionship is the key to happiness (money being potential happiness only), and that to be lacking in it is to be sad.
This Valentine's Day wasn't entirely lonesome because I spent the majority of the day with two friends, but it's towards the end of the day, as I sit in my room alone, feeling bored, and then confused at why I'm bored (why should I be bored? There's a plethora of things to do on the internet), that I realise I'm not entirely contented, for I am partially lonely.
There's no use just complaining, I imagine my blog would respond if it had a voice. What good does that do you?
To which I respond: I'm not complaining; I'm merely observing and understanding. I now know that to be happy I must build stronger friendships, if not get in a relationship (which is difficult and not likely any time soon, I don't think). I must keep the ones that I like now and in the future, when the opportunity arises (I'm alluding, hopefully, to university), I must make new and great ones to accompany and compliment the ones I already have; to fill and patch up that sense of emptiness that occasionally lingers.
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