Being understood.

It's 8:50pm on a Sunday night. I've been trying to sleep for the last hour. It's admittedly somewhat early to be turning in, but today's one of those days where I don't feel like being in solitude, and yet cannot feel energetic enough to be good company to others. I would like to read a book, but my mind seems to be wandering too much for me to get properly engrossed in the copy of "Good Omens" that sits beside my bed right now.

I have trouble with days like today. On one hand, it seemed rather fruitful as I was going through it: an intense run with a new friend in the morning, a good and valued message at church, a lunch with fellow members of the church (something I'm always interested in, though difficult to secure), and a housewarming party of much good cheer, thrown by a generous friend.

All things considered, it was a full day. Yet, moreso than most days, today I felt these pockets of loneliness that were made all the more intense by being amongst other people. At lunch, I was the only interloper amongst a group of close friends. I couldn't understand any of the in-jokes, or take interest in the discussions, and when prompted, I walked through the usual questions of where I worked and what it was like there. And the conversation stagnated.

I wish we had more interesting questions to ask people. I suppose work is always the "safe" place to start, but it seems to naturally lead into discussions about work, which gets tedious. What is there to talk about, other than whether the environment's a good one, whether it's enjoyable, and the nuances of what you're doing? Unless you're talking with somebody in the same field, there's only a slim chance that what you're doing will be genuinely fascinating to the other person. Perhaps, I'm simply in the wrong job, and I don't exude the passion that would make people curious. But that's a discussion for another day.

What I'd rather talk about is loneliness. Not in the general sense and how it feels right now, but how I got to where I am with it. I hope it's halfway interesting.

For some peculiar reason, when I think of loneliness, I keep coming back to a memory from when I was 4. We'd just moved house. The new place had floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and warm lighting that hid above a ledge, but bounced off the ceiling. There were glass display cases for the china, and a large, black rosewood table with more seat places than we needed. The TV had a spot for itself (too small--I was sitting underneath it when it fell on top of me and gave me a conk to the noggin'), and a great view of the harbor.

I suppose I must have been amazed by how much new ground there was to explore. But amidst all that excitement, I remember turning around and finding that Mom and Dad weren't there. In my memory, I have this image of us kids and our dear helper (my second mom) hugging each other in what felt like an empty, sterile home, lit only by warm incandescents.

Many things happened soonafter. You probably know of some of them, if you're reading this, though perhaps not the details that have stayed with me in memory.

I don't think I've ever had to reveal what my greatest fear is. I've heard somebody echo it, though.