To be stirred to the soul with a passion for your current existence is something I have always yearned for and something that has forever escaped me. Perhaps it is the wanderlust, the steady churning of discontent - no, not discontent, just not-quite-content. The grass is always greener, the cup half empty. There have been moments of joy, pure exaltation and revery but not as a general attitude.
Today, wandering through the farmers market directly below my loft, breathing in the scent of funnel cake and barbeque, I realized that I am rapturously in love with my life.
In the last few months I have been rejected for my work and rejected in my relationships but I can't remember ever being this content. I don't have a current project, something to distract me, to monopolize my mind and the itch to escape and set off on a new adventure is still there but it has changed ever so slightly.
Maybe it is accepting that I might never have the American Dream and that that is okay. I have yet to pinpoint the greater being that said to live a successful life you must have 2.5 children, a mortgage and a permanent address. I know they say that is what you are supposed to want but who exactly is they? And what makes them so sure?
If I have cellulite and a big nose and the occasional unlady-like out burst, I think I'll be okay.
And if I throw it all in tomorrow and sail around the world that doesn't make me a flake. And if I settle into my job, in my horrifically ugly yellow and red office and choose to build roots, well that doesn't mean I have settled.
I don't know why I am suddenly happy. I don't know why now. This is the point where my mother yells at me to stop analyzing everything but like my father, it is just my way.
So what do I write about when I am not searching, confused and angst-filled? Is happy writing even more self-involved than the other kind?