“There’s nothing wrong with being alone. There’s a lot wrong with being lonely.”My best friend told me that a few months ago when I was having a nasty time of it.And she was right.Being alone is great sometimes. When I don’t want to put up with people it’s nice to go curl up in a tree with a copy of Sylvia Plath and tell the world to bite me.
I can spend days by myself. In fact, I spent the better portion of this week alone in a cheap motel by the beach. It was nice, I got to consider my life and how far I’ve come over the past few years from a timid little kid fresh out of high school to an outgoing, high-energy, young man with ideas and opinions and goals.But it’s those long and lonely nights that get to me. Spending my third Valentine’s Day (I know, it’s a commercialized farce using love to make profit. I’m also a hopeless romantic) in a row lonely made me realize the true difference between being alone and being lonely. I was out with one of my good friends, drinking kamikazes, convincing the bartender to give us drinks for free. Even with the air of camraderie, I still looked at the couples in the bar with jealousy. I was having a great time, but it wasn’t the great time I wanted to be having.I wasn’t alone. I was wanting someone to be there with me in the same experience and moment. It was like lust, but lust for another’s presence in any sense, not just physical. It was being lonely.