It’s almost two in the morning, but I felt I had to write.  I’ve just come in from a night out to celebrate a friend’s thirtieth.  Dinner, a bar, a bit of dancing, lots of fun & the chance to catch up with some very dear old friends.  Yet despite the amazingness of the evening, I’ve come home heavy-hearted.  It’s such a strange feeling.  I can’t quite put my finger on what it is: a yearning?  Nostalgia?  Wistfulness?  Melancholy?  A mix of all of these emotions?  

As I’ve sat hear for twenty minutes, staring at the screen, writing and deleting sentences and passages, I’ve nailed what the feeling is.  I am physically aching with the love that I feel for three of the men that I saw this evening.  They are such good, decent men and tonight I’ve realised how much I love them.  This isn’t about unrequited desire or thwarted passions; it’s not about wanting to be romantically involved with any of them (who are all, incidentally, in serious relationships with the most lovely women).  I don’t know what the term is.  Platonic love?  Admiration?  I’m sure CS Lewis must have had a term for it in his analysis of the five types of love.  All I know is that I feel proud and privileged that they have been – and continue to be – part of my life.  So much so that I think what I’m feeling is lovesickness.      

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