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.