I’ve been a little sad for the last week.
I’m not really sure why. Last night I finally tried to put words to whatever it is I’ve been feeling. I sat on the deck with Greg at dusk, the cicadas ringing in the trees and little drifts of fallen golden leaves all around us on the wood.
Tears dripped down onto my shirt and I stared out through the branches at the river swirling by.
I can’t quite put my finger on it. Something is amiss. Would it be wrong to say that I’m not happy? Is it impossible to feel that I still don’t have roots here, in my life in Chicago? That I miss California, but no longer feel like that place is home either? Is it possible, in the midst of all the good things in my life, I’m still not satisfied?
In one of the many articles I read following David Foster Wallace’s death, I distinctly remember a quoted passage in which he spoke of his depression. He wondered if it was an American thing, this not feeling satisfied even when things are better than they’ve ever been.
Still, a lingering quiet dullness permeates my days. There are bright moments, flashes of fulfillment, of peace, but overall, a drifting cloud.
I’ll try to be patient with myself. To keep walking. To hold still in those bright moments. To recognize the cloud for what it is, to not pretend it isn’t there. To remember that life, if nothing else, is always moving forward.