Friends. When I had none, I was always complaining, always lonely. Or so I thought. Now I have some; still complaining, still lonely. Could it be true, what I read ages ago? At the heart of all loneliness is a deep and unfulfilled desire for union with one's own lost self.'
Could that be why we pick friends, lovers, lives, books that seem to be other versions of ourself?
And is that why I feel alone? - Because mine are all different, different, different?