Original Link : https://psiloveyou.xyz/one-day-we-will-all-die-alone-7632193da65

The quaint and transient loneliness of life itself.

The Texas sun rose high as the lord himself this fine morning. Too bright for me to appreciate fully. I’m still hungover from two days ago, and it’s almost 70 degrees on January 3. I’ve been awake for three hours, stirring, toggling between DVR’d NFL Network morning shows and chugging coffee in the crisp glow of the morning.

I walk out onto the balcony of my one-bedroom, feigning interest in the gym. I walk to the gate of my condo complex and, bleary-eyed, remember I’d let my membership lapse several months ago. There’d be no workout today. I go for a run instead. Two miles. Baby steps.

I saunter back inside and glance at a guitar that’s been collecting dust for months now. I played it last night for the first time in nearly two years. I miss that ol’ thing. I miss the way the spun-steel calloused my fingers as I glided up and down the fretboard. I knew she’d be back in my arms someday. Yesterday, I suppose.

As I walk into the dimly-lit kitchen to Keurig another cup of coffee, I try to muster strength and a smile. Counting minutes, laying limp and catatonic, in a daze watching NFL morning shows. The thick fog rolls in. I slip away into sleep for fifteen minutes only to be rudely awoken by an alarm I keep forgetting I no longer need. I haven’t had a commute in four months.

I shower. I chug another cup of coffee, too quickly, and log onto my computer within the ballpark of on time — whatever the hell that means anymore. I used to play music in my car. Used to blast 2 Chainz at ear-splitting range and car-rap to myself.

Most days, aside from that Alternate-1985 Biff Tannen twat-nozzle impulse-bombing Iranian generals in Iraq for sport, it’s all just quiet now. I’m just me. Thinking about everything and nothing. This is me — the me you don’t see. The me that we all share in common. The hidden layers underneath what we share with each other. Dull. Unremarkable. The rest of the iceberg. And it’s what’s below the surface of all of us that we need to talk about.


Iam going to die alone. I don’t mean that in the pitiful sense, but in the actual truest sense of the word. We all die alone. We share that in common, but we do not die together. We do not spend eternity in the same place.

It is the grand cosmic loneliness of never being able to fully cohabit within each other that partitions us all into fractal selves. We are all on our own icebergs, fractured and floating away from the poles of our youth, drifting toward and away from each other, watching time melt away until we inevitably sink into the Earth itself. This is the loneliness we all share. This is us.


Itis the grand techno-joke of the 21st Century that we’ve convinced ourselves that our every activity makes for compelling content worth viewing or ready: People now live-stream their golf practice, their morning routines, their cooking prep. People now Snap 15-second snippets of every beat-drop, every Beer-a-Rita, every snowball fight, every painfully long wait for the 7-train.

I believe we do this because we are fundamentally lonely, and getting elementally lonelier by the day, because the small, the quaint and the mundane is the undersea iceberg base that we all have in common — they’re the things that make us feel a little more connected — and we’re all disengaged from the life around us and we consume our very existence through the soft glow of our pocket supercomputers.

I introduced this column with a painfully mundane morning vignette, a rundown of the iceberg below the surface, because I suspect it isn’t all that much different — in tone, content or consequence — from what you might be doing with yourself at this moment, or in your morning.

So, so much of what we do is so small, so quaint, so lackluster, that it won’t register on the eulogy when we inevitably pass. It’s these moments between the moments that ultimately make up the bulk of our existence: far away from the manic energy of our IG stories and the deliciously staged candids we pretend not to pose for, as the world sinks into oblivion and the apocalyptic terror of global kleptocratic fascism spreads like a pandemic from nation to nation, spinning into infinity and beyond.


Asfor me, I know I’m also guilty of stretching my insecurities, my experiences, my dreams and my occasional irrational optimism into sentences and paragraphs.

I try and turn my uniquely individual boons and burdens into little art projects. Presumably for the sole reason of feeling less lonely. To feel less confined to the prison of my body. To shout across the ocean and hope another one of you on one your icebergs can hear me. Maybe we drift together, dock, and share a Beer-a-Rita. One more before I die. Or before you do. Whichever happens first. One will always happen first.

I suppose, in that way, what I do isn’t all that much different than posting a picture of my outfit at Joshua Tree or a selfie on Santorini, and remarking how enchanting and fleeting this life all is, or how much I just adore this sweater, or about what mood I’m carrying with me into 2020, or how full my heart is with gratitude, or how blessed I am to share this space under a sunbeam of So Much Love(TM).

Our social feeds have become a window into our lives, but they can never quite be a window into our deepest selves. That’s why we’re still lonely despite being so transparent: a window is not a doorway. We can look, but not touch. We are all kids in a candy museum. Our brands are not our soul, no matter how much life we breathe into them.


It’s 10 a.m. now. The sun has faded behind the trees that adorn the complex parking lot, and the clouds have rolled in. I shuffle through some papers, and update my swipe file for things I may write in the future. Springsteen’s “Incident on 57th Street” plays on my Alexa speaker.

I do much of my writing in the grayed-out calm of a kitchen, my cat slumbering on the chair to my left. I sip some more coffee. I breathe deeply. I don’t have a compelling desire to turn this musing into anything of consequence, certainly nothing worthy of a retweet.

I am not a lifestyle brand, and neither are you. I just write. I bleed. I spit. I snore like a buzz-saw. I am many things, but I am mostly a body. That body is now 37 years old, 5’7″, somewhere between 155 and 210 pounds depending on the day, and it suffers from a variety of ailments, mental and physical.

I spend a lot of time talking about social media, friendship, the American dream, technology, ego, the awkwardness of self-promotion, achievement, learning, success, individuality, failure, expectations, thoughts, lies, change, love, time, death and the very nature of reality. Somehow, it all loosely hangs together.

I also talk about myself, but very rarely talk about me. Not the me you usually read, the one with all the wild stories of sex, love, loss, drugs, depression, triumph and redemption. I’m not the me you think you see. I’m the capital-M me. The one below the surface. The one that drifts in and out of sleep texting casual acquaintances like we’re old friends, or sexting strangers, while Netflix chills in the background.


I’ve been awake for four hours now, lamenting my myriad awkward and wholly unnecessary texts from last week, when I binge-drank for eight straight days to get through a particularly rough bout of xanax withdrawal. I’m now wondering when I’ll work up the energy to invoice a client, dreaming of cigarettes and whiskey, knowing I won’t have either for the next nine months, dreading talking to people until my confidence returns and this feeling of existential ache clears.

I’ll hit publish now, and within minutes, here you’ll be at the end of this meandering snapshot, an essay containing no life lessons, no “one weird trick,” and no call to action. Do people read just to enjoy reading anymore? Do people write just to write and not to go viral? Maybe. Maybe not. I do.

Either way, we’ll try again tomorrow, as the shakes subside and the clouds clear the way for the sun that’s shining outside but not in my soul. Not today. And that’s quite alright. Maybe I’ll dream up some clickbait that’s maximally shareable, or take beautiful photos of myself in some small-batch vintage clothing and call myself a “style blogger.”

But today, just for today, I didn’t write this for you. I wrote this for Me. After all, I am going to die alone. Everything you read is just me trying to get all the words out before the iceberg melts. My soul will leave the earth. My body will decay. My data trail will sadly become my legacy. The Texas sun will finally set, and my words will be all that remain.