It’s not where I am; it’s me.

And if it’s where I am, it’s still me.

I was looking up at the sheets of parceled clouds and the glowing moon in the violet night sky, mesmerized by how the former flowed softly over the latter. I found myself wishing I could do that all the time – perhaps if I lived in a suburban or rural setting, with quiet fields or hills to lay down on, or park beside. It would be in a safer location, so I could actually go outside in peace at night.

Then, being self-aware, I started thinking about how I’m always dreaming about other places, better places, happier places… It’s something I’ve observed about myself recently, especially as I’ve been trying to figure out where I belong geographically. I’ve never been entirely happy with where I’ve been, and I’ve never been wholly happy* where I’ve been.

I’ve conjectured before, but I may finally be realizing it. It may never have been about where I was as much as about me. It may never be about where I am as much as about me. Pretentious, cynical, anxious, cowardly me.

The spirit of this post is revelatory and positive.

*I like to think that I’m happy. Sometimes I question it, and often I find myself looking the polar opposite of the image of happiness. To be honest, I don’t know how one is meant to assess their happiness. I’m okay with my life, but there are times when I’m critically not. The important thing is, I don’t think I’m wholly happy. I don’t experience full happiness in my life; it tends to be either a shallow joy or an overwhelming, melancholy brand of gladness. I want to be content. I want to be at peace with my life, my surroundings, and myself.

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