The moon is big and heavy; the wind icy. I drove home tonight from a meeting I'd chaired and shivered getting out of the car, my scarf whipping up around me as the air bit straight through my clothing. I was thinking as I stepped, of a quote I've always admired by transcendentalist author Henry David Thoreau and how apt it seemed, walking into the moon.
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!
How simple; so perfect. And yet so confounding as well. How does one go confidently in the direction of their dreams if they are not sure of what those dreams might be? If I could name a dream it would be to be happy. And yet if I am going confidently in the direction of happy does that not make it a destination instead of a state of being?
I don't want to arrive at happiness, I just want to be happy.
In amongst this academic debate, racing around my head as I climbed the stairs I realised with a start that I am not happy and the sobering realisation settled heavily in my chest. I am not sure when the unhappy came to visit, but it came with luggage and appears keen to stay. I want to be happy, but feel a little lost in where to begin. Unused of late of having to think so much about it.
I feel dreamless and sensitive. Trapped and anxious. Unwilling to stay here with this unhappiness and confused as to which path might be next. I am not immune to happiness, I am absolutely affected by beauty, but there is something that is not quite right and I can't identify exactly what it might be.
I think I need new dreams.