I believe the words were “don’t be so fatalistic”.
That’s what she said to me. A woman I just met, talking about me talking about going home.
Oh the drama. Of which I have a penchant for.
I am throwing my hand to my forehead and feigning fainting in an oh so dramatic gesture.
That is my life sometimes. Or rather that is how I imagine my life most times.
Being back home is not the worst thing in the world. The way I talk about it shouldn’t be the worst thing in the world either. And yet I do. What is it about being back that makes me so unhappy? Or is it simply the absence of joy? A visible degradation in my levels of satisfaction with life as I perceive it? Is it melancholia?
Everything feels bland. Hazy. Not worth the trouble.
I think I understand now when my ex said that she felt life without me was like a colourless out of focus painting of a German countryside. She was oddly specific considering her English had regressed and my Dutch had not gotten any better. She was never one for an in imagination anyway.
I feel a sense of sleepiness taking over me, a lethargy that clings to my body and my mind.
I’m afraid of succumbing to it.
I’m afraid of it encasing me in a comfortable cocoon.
I’m afraid of what I will be come when I’m released from it.