Crown of Thorns - Amelie Andrezel
I do miss my old neighborhood…
Despite what he said, Jane knew this was why Paul wrote: without a book, he was cut off from the others, pacing alone in an empty room.
But just as there is a sadness in being alone, the knowledge of something beautiful—just out of your reach—is one of life’s most agonizing cruelties. That was the danger of writing a book. That was loneliness. Not to write was merely isolation.
This was a hard question, Jane admitted to herself as she walked down the sidewalk in the sad, suburban darkness. She thought about her old apartment and wished that she were there, among the buildings. They would have comforted her. She would have taken solace in the peeling paint of an old windowsill or the clean cut of a new high rise against the skyline. At the very least, they would have given her something to think about beyond the intolerable ugliness of being lonely.
Did buildings feel lonely?
Well, of course they didn’t. They were made of concrete and steel and marble and plastic, and these things didn’t condescend to feelings. But to put it another way, was it lonely to be a building?
How odd, in all her years photographing architecture, it had never been a question of any importance to her.
A building didn’t seem lonely. Tall buildings were surrounded by other tall buildings. Even small buildings were filled with the people for whom they had been built to fulfill a particular purpose or function. Purpose was good.
Warehouses and abandoned buildings were full of things, too: mysterious boxes, broken machinery, the nests of animal squatters. Surely to be full was a precaution against being lonely.
But Jane was not so sure.
Paul had said that he was full: full of people, full of places. And yet, at that moment, he seemed the loneliest man alive.