An Unsatisfactory Conclusion


I am a college student who has always wanted to be a college student. I’ve been waiting for “the best years of my life” for years so I could immerse myself in knowledge, find out who I am without restrictions on what I’m able to find, who I’m able to meet, where I’m able to go and when I’m able to get there,  be a part of something meaningful that I love so that in turn I could be loved, accepted, but most of all… happy. I’ve been waiting to be happy for years. For what seems like a lifetime and I suppose, for me, it has been.

Now I’m here.

I am at a place that feels like home, that I am learning at just the extent that I’ve always wanted to learn, and yet I feel as if something is lacking. I feel hindered, barred by something I just can’t seem to figure out. I should be perfectly happy. I tell myself to be perfectly happy. “Put yourself out there!” my self-conscience roots. “Be who you’ve always wanted to be because now you finally can!” , but I can’t.

It has occurred to me that I’ve never actually known who I’ve wanted to be. Ever. I’ve only ever wanted to be happy. And I suppose that is the real problem with me. I shouldn’t be “searching” for happiness. I should be able to find it in silly things. Subtle things. The trifles of everyday life. I should see it in the smiles people give, the conversations I have with the ones I love, the embraces, and the laughter, but I don’t. It’s not that I don’t feel it. In the moment, I can always feel how close I am to it. I could stay in those moments forever, but the moments always fade. Then I come to realize how fleeting those moments are and I can never fill myself up with the happiness it brings me like I want to. It comes. It goes. And I’m constantly expecting it. I’m forever anticipating Happiness’s arrival and then again his retreat. It’s frustrating.

Weeks and weeks will pass without me feeling that happiness that I always search for. Or maybe it comes and goes so quickly I don’t notice it. When it’s not the happiness that fills me, warm and reassuring, it’s a mellow emptiness. Indifference? Loneliness? Boredom? I can never tell. But that’s the feeling I mostly have. I feel it now as I’m writing and I wonder why I can’t just be content or if I’m searching for something that doesn’t exist. A full feeling no one has. Maybe the problem is merely that the feeling is mundane and I just need to live with it. Completely logical. Which makes the fact that I’ve been searching for it my whole life, trying to wade through the mundane, completely silly. Time wasting.

And that’s the conclusion I always avoid…

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