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Without loneliness, without the lust for a kindred spirit’s flame, we would never venture out of our selves, of our shells. We would just remain in solipsist but joyful contemplation of the cosmos at best and our own concerns at worst, unaware of anything but ourselves. Hell is not other people, hell is oneself, disconnected from the other and the all.

So I guess there comes a point when patience, vulnerability, and kindliness come into play, where we begin to feel compassion in that desire for intimact. Where another’s pain becomes our own, and the pleasure of being with another is too intense to make you want to go off on your own again.

The joy of preparing dinner for a friend or a lover when you are used to eating by yourself comes to mind. And then you may sit down to eat, and find your companion lacking compared to the fantasies of your mind, that they are not so eloquent or witty as your inner discourse. But when they leave, you will be alone again, and you’ll know it wasn’t sparkling conversation that you missed.  It was the warmth of another heart.

I don’t know if my love will turn back to me or if I’ll be alone again. What I do know is, I don’t want to be alone forever. I don’t want to be independent, invulnerable, self-sufficient. I accept the fact that I want other people in my life, and that they will constrain me at times. But that they will also lift me up, and add joy to the journey and lift burdens from my back. Much as I’m so eager to know this person, I know that I have to wait for the right one, and be patient.

We need that hole in our hearts for God, and love, to come in.

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