Sometimes I lay awake at night and ponder the question
“am I really happy??
What can make me happy??”
My best friend says I get bored easily; loose interest in things almost as suddenly as the frenzy that takes a hold of mi when I gain interest in them. The only things that haven’t come to bore mi are language, travel and writing; but I suspect that is simply due to the fleeting and rare opportunities I have to practice them.
The limited-edition-like feeling remains fresh each time. I long for something always, yet I don’t quite know the name of it.
Some psychologists will suggest acceptance in order to arrive at happiness. But the act of accepting is almost synonymous with settling.
I feel trapped and caged. Yet I know the door is open; though I remain unaware of what direction to fly off to.
So, I write. I write and hope for the fog to lift someday.
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