At times I am happy and contented. At other times I feel lost and empty. The latter, unfortunately, has proven to be a more loyal visitor than the former.
Analyzing where I am exactly now, I have no direct answer, nor have I any answer at all. Even the simple question of what makes me happy creates doubt. Sure my answer is that of the Miss Universe type - to make other people happy is what makes me happy - but it is not right. It doesn't even feel right.
A colleague once said that it makes him happy to accomplish something. Even that sounds vague. What is there to accomplish?
I have given up on my career. I have fallen so hard I'm having difficulty picking myself up. Health is slowly deteriorating. I can even sense death creeping, sneaking, ever so dramatic. I will not be surprised if one day I find it difficult to think, let alone remember.
Life is real, life is earnest. Longfellow said. And it is life that I may not be able to understand.
And love. There will always be this longing. And fear. Always there is fear.