It's back again. The ennui. It feels sort of like this:
It's hard to put your finger on it. You're not quite sure what's wrong. After all, you have a good job, a good car, good kids, and, by all accounts, a good life. You worked to get there too: 5 degrees and about 14 years of schooling after high school, off and on. Medical coverage? Retirement account? Not issues you worry about on a daily basis. Maybe preschool expenses, but they are manageable.
You made it. That's what your Dad tells you. Your kids are great. That's what your Mom tells you.
Really. There's nothing wrong.
Not one thing.
So, you go out to celebrate your fortune, but you've no one to go with. You call as many people as you know, but they are busy; that's fine when you're a busy person because busy people know busy people who are often busy with their own lives, and you're too busy to be anything but happy for them.
So, you go out on your own, and you try to meet other people. Most look the other way: they don't know you, and they are there to have their own good time. That's fine, you tell yourself, because at least you're out and enjoying your good fortune on a Saturday night. You're out to have fun, not to mope.
So, you buy a drink, and it tastes good, but not great. It tastes like every other drink you've had for the past month or so. Same drinks; same taste; same effect. And, the same venues, the same people that blow you off, the same people that don't pay attention.
You sit on a stool, maybe. Or perhaps you stand outside for a smoke. Maybe you take a moment to look around. Maybe not. The cigarettes don't taste good, but they don't taste bad. They taste like the drinks: shallow, repetitive, and empty.
You can have everything to celebrate, yet still feel an unbearable lightness of being. You can have nothing to worry about, and feel completely unattached to your life at the same time.
This is not my melancholy; this is my boredom. I've felt it for almost five months. It goes away on the rare occasion that something or someone quickens me again. But then, nothing lasts forever, and the beer becomes a sodden lump in my threat.
Tomorrow's Monday. I look forward to it because it's not Sunday.*