An improvised eulogy for love (and other unhelpful ways I stopped caring)
Written on March 27th, 2025 by Zerotistic
I’ve grown so weary of the endless chorus urging me to find a girlfriend, to “settle down,” to “give life meaning” through the pursuit of romance. It feels like an unrelenting chant echoing off the walls of my mind, as though everyone’s convinced that the sole purpose of a man’s existence is to lock arms with someone—anyone, really—and trudge forward into the glow of domestic bliss. Perhaps once I believed in all that, or tried to, but I can’t muster even a fragment of faith anymore. The hollowness of it all has become painfully clear. I have, in every sense, given up on love.
I’m told that’s a sad thing to say, that I should keep hoping, keep trying, keep searching. But hope is exhausting. Trying is exhausting. Searching is exhausting. Every time I watch couples shuffle by, entwined fingers and shared glances, it only reminds me of a realm I can’t touch or, more accurately, no longer wish to approach. Because to believe that love is the answer, to place one’s heart in the trembling hands of another, is to invite a host of expectations I cannot—and will not—fulfill. My presence in the world, as far as I can tell, isn’t validated by a romantic partner. I see no compelling reason to pretend otherwise.
Sometimes, well-meaning relatives, or old friends who haven’t fully grasped my exhaustion, corner me with gentle inquiries: “So, anyone special yet?” The question is loaded, isn’t it? The assumption is that there must be “someone special,” as though I were incomplete until I’ve secured that intangible but supposedly universal bond. They talk about love like it’s a universal remedy—a cure-all for loneliness, heartbreak, or discontent. But I’ve observed that love can also become the very disease it claims to cure, creeping like an infection into every corner of one’s life until there’s no private space left. I say this with a certain cynicism, yes, but also with a tired acceptance that maybe it’s just not for me.
And let’s not pretend that physical intimacy—the so-called “obvious” expression of love—miraculously resolves the existential dread that shadows us all. If anything, it’s a fleeting distraction. A night, a few months, maybe a couple of years if you’re “lucky,” of chemical rapture. Then the sheen rubs off, the illusions fade, and you’re left grappling with the same old question: “Why am I here?” In my case, the answer remains stubbornly obscure. Life’s final destination is no grand secret: we all plod along, weighed down by day-to-day trivialities, and then we die. No matter how fiercely you clutch at another person, mortality is unshakable and the emptiness in your chest doesn’t magically vanish.
I sometimes envy those who can’t see the hollowness. They’re blessed—or perhaps cursed—with an innocent faith that there’s a grand plan, a promised happiness that arrives with the right relationship. They do their best to fill the silence with companionship. But I’ve grown suspicious of that brand of fulfillment. It strikes me as a carefully orchestrated delusion, a fairytale grown monstrous, devouring any sense of self for the sake of social approval. And do people really see each other in love, or do they merely reflect their own desires?
The expression “I love you” itself has become unbearably heavy. It suggests a permanent state of being, as though time and personal development stand still in its glow. But people change—sometimes daily, sometimes by the hour. Imagine trying to pin a butterfly to a corkboard, expecting it to remain vibrantly alive. That’s how I see the phrase now: an attempt to immortalize a moment, ignoring that the moment is already gone. No matter how genuine the sentiment when first uttered, it’s doomed to wither under the grinding inevitability of change.
I used to devour novels and films that glorified romance, and for a while, they gave me hope that perhaps I was simply missing out on something. But the more I consumed, the more I realized these stories were meticulously curated illusions. Flickering images, elegantly crafted sentences—none of it disclosed the quiet despair lurking beneath daily routines. Love stories end at the climactic confession, the final embrace, or the tearful reunion. They rarely dare to show the blank days that follow, when ordinary life reasserts itself and the high of new passion becomes stale. Even the saddest romances leave some space for the audience to sigh and weep, as if heartbreak itself had a certain nobility. But it’s not noble—it’s exhausting. There’s no poetry in feeling worthless because someone’s affection slipped away.
From time to time, I resent how society positions solitude as a flaw—a deficiency to be corrected. The unspoken assumption is that if you’re alone, you’re either defective or pitiful. Maybe there was a time when I, too, swallowed that script and felt guilt for not participating in the carnival of coupling. But that guilt has ebbed away, replaced by a chilly, reasoned cynicism. I’m not better or worse for being alone; it’s just how I exist. And if that existence is tinged with gloom, well, so are a great many others’ who happen to be in relationships. The difference is they can always lean on the romance narrative to rationalize their suffering.
I can’t help but find the whole business of romance to be a rather cunning distraction from the fact that life, at its core, is aimless and fleeting. We’re born, we learn to speak and think, and we fumble through an existence that’s overshadowed by inevitable decay and death. Love might stand like a neon sign flashing “Purpose! Purpose!” but I can’t take it seriously. It’s like a carnival barker shouting at passersby to take a chance on the ring toss. The only real outcome is that you’ll lose your coins and walk away empty-handed.
People sometimes ask if I’m lonely, and maybe I am in a dull, persistent way. But I’ve started to see that loneliness is more universal than we’d like to admit. Even those who share a bed, who whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears, might carry a deeper, more agonizing loneliness than I do. Their brand of solitude is one of thwarted expectations—believing love would close the gap between two minds, only to realize the gap can never fully be bridged. At least my kind of loneliness doesn’t lie to me. It’s predictable and less humiliating.
I’ve heard all the arguments. They say, “Love is worth the risk,” “You’ll regret not trying,” “One day, someone will come along who changes your mind.” They might as well be reciting lines from a script that lost its potency centuries ago. Perhaps, in some parallel dimension, I was that man who persevered and found bliss in another’s arms. But here, in the reality I occupy, each attempt has left me more convinced that the supposed remedy is worse than the illness of solitude. I just don’t feel compelled to keep drinking from a well I’ve found to be perpetually dry.
Let’s call it defeat if that makes it simpler. In truth, defeat is an oddly comforting notion. Defeat means there’s nothing left to lose, no more illusions to maintain, no elaborate justifications for why love didn’t materialize in the glowing shape I was promised. So yes, I’m defeated, I’m tired, and I’m done. I’ll let others chase what they believe is the pinnacle of the human experience. If that chase brings them joy, so be it. But I see no reason to keep sprinting toward a finish line that disappears the moment I approach it.
If it sounds like I’m bitter, it’s because I am. But bitterness has a certain clarity to it, a cutting honesty that I’ve come to respect. At least it doesn’t swaddle me in false hope. I’d rather sit with my bitterness, cradle it like a sleeping cat, and let it purr cynically in my lap. It doesn’t promise me happiness; it merely confirms the futility of chasing after illusions.
Eventually, I, too, will vanish. That’s the one certainty in all of this: each of us is on a collision course with the end. Whether or not I spend my final years with a partner by my side is inconsequential to the cold, unstoppable force of mortality. No vow or whispered endearment can keep death at bay. Maybe love helps people forget that for a time. But I’ve never been particularly good at forgetting.
So here I am, a man who’s chosen to opt out, who’s embraced the notion that love—at least the conventional, romantic sort—holds no promise for me. Call it tragic or pathetic if you wish. I’ve abandoned that desire, set it adrift on a sea of empty hours. And though I sometimes catch a glimpse of it from the shore, bobbing in the distance, I no longer feel compelled to swim out and reclaim it. The water is too cold, and I’m too tired.
In the end, all the commotion about finding “the one” feels like a carefully staged play that I can’t force myself to watch anymore. Let the curtains fall on the idea that love is a necessary credential for a meaningful life. Perhaps my life is meaningless, but at least it’s mine, no longer tethered to expectations and illusions I’ve failed to grasp time and time again. In the quiet that remains, I can at least hear my own thoughts—bleak though they may be. And bleak as they are, they’re also truthful, unencumbered by the false promise that a shared bed will banish the darkness. The darkness is here to stay, and I’ve finally learned to sit with it, unafraid, or at least too exhausted to care.