I Think Too Little and Read Too Much

I had a moment today, walking down the street, where I watched my shadow on the sidewalk and realized that this is steadily approaching what had always been my idea of perfection.  To be independent in all of these ways, to be loved, to be in a new place in a new time.

I remember how a month ago the thought of coming back was unbearable.  I couldn't stand the prospect of returning to this place.  It sickened me and made me cry.  There are moments still when being here is unbearable.  And in that same moment when I realized that this was perfection, it became unbearable.

I don't think I'll ever really be happy.  Not in the way you picture retired couples happily sitting on beaches for days in this constant state of contentment.  My happiness hinges too much on opportunity and unpredictability to be this attainable state.  It comes and goes.  It fluctuates.  And then I have moments like today, when perfection is equivalent to heartbreak and I don't know what it means.

I know it doesn't have to have a meaning.  Not everything needs to be over-analyzed or investigated under the microscope.  It was just so beautiful.  You can feel spring slowly starting to creep into the air, the green returning to the grass.  And the sun was golden in the way it usually only is around sunset, except that it wasn't.  There's no word for such a moment other than perfection.

Perfection, strange as it is to say, isn't perfect.  This was perfection in the sense that nothing could ever get better than this.  That it was as good as it could possibly be.  Not that nothing was wrong.  I don't think it's possible for nothing to be wrong.  And that's not a bad thing.  It's just a slightly saddening realization.