“I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore, except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. Probably not even real.”
I read that passage on one of my favorite art/poetry sites last week, and it’s stuck with me ever since. It resonates with this feeling I constantly carry; this unexplained instinct that always feels… kind of unsettled.
Because I do feel like I’m endlessly searching for something else, when “something else” is hard — maybe even impossible — to define.
Whether it’s a sense of excitement, adventure, happiness, love, passion, comfort, depth in another person, deeper meaning. A fleeting emotion, a feeling, a purpose.
Perhaps it’s a side effect of daydreams, when overt curiosity collides with too much introspection. Searching for the meaning of life, some would say.
I would love to know exactly what I’m looking for, and if or when I’ll know that I’ve found it.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s like chasing a mirage.
There are times when it feels like it’s just out of reach. But maybe what I’m reaching for… just isn’t real.