How great is the pain of loving someone who’s avoiding you? Too great, I would say. To know why is often little comfort, Jon knew that Martin was working with Peter Lukas but know why does not stop you needing to know why.
To know so much, to know information you shouldn’t, even to be able to know where Martin was, at times! It doesn’t help. It hinders. You could know every piece of factual information in the world but it will never reveal to you the intricacies of human emotion.
Jon’s very soul is embedded with that undying need to understand, to know! And to lose someone who’s always been so open, so understanding to that need, so willing to help, provide any information, conform to his needs… To lose that at such a terrible time in his life? What more could that do that deepen the maddening desire to know and understand WHY.
Martin always thought he understood why, whenever anyone left like that. Obviously it was him, who else would it be? He wasn’t good enough, he didn’t do enough, didn’t give enough. But when he left Jon what cause would he have to believe that he’d think that? Jon, always so sure of himself, so committed, so strong; he’d never be insecure. Martin would be able to leave him to protect him, and I’m sure he believed that Jon would barely miss him.
The pain of a thing like this often lies in the small details, the things you never really notice when they’re happening, but that stab you in the gut when you realise they’re gone. The morning cups of tea, the gentle insights into eachother’s projects, short conversations over hurried lunch breaks, subtly prolonged goodbyes at the end of a workday…
Stumbling into a cold, empty break room where you might once have had a nice chat (out of politeness of course, nothing more… ) to find yourself alone, the kettle still warm, freshly boiled.
The pain of loving someone who’s left is immense, and so much more so when you’ve only just admitted to yourself that that love is there.
“I thought you might be lost.” is one of the most delightfully romantic things Jon ever says to Martin.
It’s so devoid of blame, of derision. A truly neutral statement, soft, no touch of sarcasm, no hint of cruelty. A gentle hand reached out to pull him from the depths of the lonely.
Such an unusual phrase for Jon, especially at that time. There’s no definitives, it’s entirely open to correction, open to being wrong. ‘I thought’ not I knew. It comes from Jon’s perspective, he holds himself out to rejection, something that’s hard to do at the best of times.
'you might be lost’, not you were, not you are. He respects that this may well have been a conscious choice, that Martin really could have chosen to abandon him, preferring the lonely to the lack of certainty in their relationship. But it retains the softness and love, the worry and care. He was worried that Martin might not be able to find his way back, but not willing to drag him out of a place he might have chosen to be.
And that’s not even mentioning the softness with which he says it. In an intense moment of great urgency and importance he’s able to drop his fear, stress, and anger, in an attempt to reach the man he loves.
It’s such an elegant moment of love; in a second Jon is willing to let go of the gravity of the situation and put all of his being into connecting with Martin, and when it comes down to it, it works.
An invitation to join The Lonely
How would you like to feel the blissful weightlessness of true solitude? There’s so much joy in not having to worry about others; it doesn’t have to be that you don’t care about them, it can instead be that they simply don’t care about you. It may sound harsh but the relief is instant.
A light fog across dew speckled grass, fresh, clean country air, a place away from other people. Have you ever been on a hike by yourself? Noticed the way the world lights up when you’re not weighed down by a partner? By leaving them, leaving everyone, you’re allowing them to feel that selfsame bliss.
An empty ocean, the ebbs and flows of the gentle waves caressed by moonlight, the shipping forecast playing idly on your radio. A boat is a delightful place to be alone, to experience the genuine freedom of looking out across the open ocean in the sweet knowledge that nobody else will cross your path, nobody will disturb you.
Even just being where you are now, would it not be better to be there alone? Nobody to ruin the moment for you, nobody to disrupt the flow of your life; and indeed to be ignored by those who might, to have them walk by leaving you unscathed.
Nobody really deserves anybody, and in a world of loneliness that simply won’t matter. Some would say that to be lonely is pain, but they’re wrong. Loneliness is ever so comfortable.
Oddly specific, mundane things that are aligned with the 15 fears:
The Eye- Making deep eye contact with a stranger on the platform as the train pulls away.
The Hunt- Wanting something so badly that you can’t stay still anymore.
The Buried- Trying to get your phone back when it falls between your bed and the wall
The Vast- Being a child and hearing about how unknowably large Chuthulu is for the first time.
The Flesh- Looking in the mirror and realising your body’s changed since the last time you really looked.
The Lonely- Realising you’re the only customer at the supermarket.
The Corruption- When you see one ant but once you’ve focused on it you can see the rest of them.
The End- Holding an antique object and knowing that it’s original owner is long dead.
The Desolation- That gut wrenching feeling when you’ve lost something you know you’re not going to be able to get back.
The Stranger- Looking into the eyes of a loved one and not being able to see anything you know in there.
The Spiral- When you say something loud enough to be heard and absolutely nobody processes it or responds.
The Dark- Straining your eyes to try and see something at the end of an unlit corridor that you swear you could almost see.
The Slaughter- Ripping up a letter with your full name and address on and throwing it in the bin.
The Extinction- Being the last player left alive in a survival game and realising that in another life that could happen for real.
The Web- That burning, guilty feeling after you’re manipulated into doing something you didn’t want to do.