the little things
but still, it is the little things, the feeling that your empathetic duty to your fellow humans is forcing you to abstain from the small joys in life.
the joy of train rides to near or distant cities.
weekend afternoons spent loitering in front of art, laughing at the over-complicated interpretations the ‘experts’ have made of paintings by those who have left the world centuries ago.
reasoning that they placed that ‘interesting abstract shape’ in that specific location in order to mask the mistaken blob of black paint that fell from their brush and not because it signified a major turning point in their eccentric life.
no longer having the leisure to occupy a corner table in a café, with a book open in front of you that remains abandoned as you become so caught up in the act of people watching that you never make it to the end of a page despite having valiantly made multiple attempts to do so.
the stories unfolding in front of you are infinitely more intriguing than anything you could consume from black and white text in that moment when you can instead choose the technicolour of life.
starved of the dread of having to make an appearance at some social event on a dark night, but equally craving the thrill of an intellectual conversation with a complete stranger.
the lost opportunity to form the invisible bond that only happens with strangers which you will reflect upon from time to time and consider what could have been despite the fact that you’ll never again cross paths.
the excitement of reuniting with old friends from around the globe and enveloping them in a hug which now feels like such a foreign act that the thought alone is only a dream.
the fact that it never feels as though you’re connecting with others now when you cannot shake hands or communicate with them in a crowded room.
realising that you spoke more confidently before when you could hold eye contact with another person and feeling totally disoriented and inadequate when trying to convey your ardent opinion to a black dot above a screen.
you question why you bother, what is the point, will this ever end, and if it does will you ever feel comfortable sitting alone in a café again.
will you be forever plagued with the feeling that you need to apologise for something you have absolutely no control over and nonetheless, be remorseful?
