I wanna live, I wanna give; I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold…

Or so begins Neil Young’s song entitled… well… Heart of Gold. Look, I really don't know how much I have in common with some calloused, middle-aged man, but the sentiment (at least to some degree) is (probably) universal–as great as it is being single and all ready to mingle, I cannot help but feel a bit empty as I helplessly watch those around me be roped away one by one.

What also doesn’t help is the pervasion of love–more specifically, romance–into our pop culture; everywhere you turn, you are incessantly reminded of your solitude (care for a sip of “male loneliness epidemic,” anyone?), and yeah, while I too do love a nice lil’ intimacy dashed in with my mindless media every now and then, it’s just a bit much sometimes, ya know? Like… what if we just had a wholesome little tale where the guy gets the girl… only to lend him a car ride–to the beach, alone; at sunset, where the two of them laugh and exchange embarrassing life stories, staring longingly into each others’ eyes as they slowly realize the universality of that inexplicable intensity of human connection, their brains slowly conforming themselves–literally chemically altering themselves–to be with one another, their voices slowly softening as the sun sets, the gulls quiet, and nothing can be heard but the oceans’ forlorn, third-wheeling waves (and maybe the soft, background hum of a quiet jazz quartet that’s settled in, even if only in their heads) as the two slowly lean in together… their faces gaining ground on each other, their hearts beating out the passionate, orchestral joy of their connection, their eyes–pupils–dialating, the sky darkening while their minds suddenly become frostily clear, devoid of all intention and emotion besides the present, where their breath can be felt on each others’ cheeks, lazily staggered from an afternoon of laborious emotional facades, their faces meeting in the middle, pausing from innocent hesitation, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of her hair that’s fallen down, out of place, pushing up the glasses that have been slipping down the rim of his nose only to not notice as they drop back down, the frame’s legs losing their grip as he loses his on himself–and they meet! They meet in the middle, and a divine orchestra crescendoes! And there are fireworks, celebrations, cheers from everyone in the dead silence of the seashore

as his keystrokes pause. He’s a writer, but it looks like James Baldwin, for once, was wrong. One does not necessarily write out of that one thing only: ”one’s own experience,” and not “everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give.” He’d never really been in love–rather, it was his job to write about it convincingly enough for others to fall in love with his silly little tales.

…

Sigh… I need more hobbies, man.