I still don’t know if I should blame the weather, the seasons, the gloom of winter and the dullness of daily routines when reality doesn’t seem to be enough for my happiness. Sometimes, I get to the point where suddenly everything is put into question. The occasional Friday afternoon when I sit in my car, parked in front of my house, the engine still on, with a pent-up urge to drive and drive and drive, chase the coral sky in the horizon. Maybe find some perfect hilltop where I can sit with the person foolish enough to follow me and watch them fall in love with the sky too.
I want to put the blame on “phases” for feeling that way. Phases of the year, of youth, of life. Or maybe “moods.” Maybe a sad song.
What is it like to feel that you have enough?
People like to say, “You are enough. Just as you are.” But the last guy to have a piece of my heart didn’t seem to feel I was enough. Yet I don’t hold that against him. Should I? Would that be fair? For months, he couldn’t find the way to express this, to admit that I was lacking, just as I was. Maybe he didn’t want to tell me because he was afraid to hurt my feelings. Or maybe he just wanted to keep me around, but he couldn’t admit that either.
And so he blamed “circumstance.” He talked about what other people would think. About a list of external factors that ultimately had little to do with me, with my being. The idealist in me believed that being enough meant I’d be worth more than those doubts. The realist in me, for once, agreed: if I were enough, those excuses would have little weight.
So, I finally said to him, “I’ve had enough.”
At least that’s what I meant to say, but I fear he stole my chance. Would it have been easier to say than it was to hear?
If only. If only he had the courage to look past those petty details. Then, maybe by now, we’d be calling every evening to talk about our day, and he would rant about his boss while I roll my eyes at the idea of him complaining that two days in the office “was not ideal.” Maybe I’d be driving to his house for Friday movie nights, lying on that basement couch I always loved, and chatting about friends he doesn’t see so much anymore. Or maybe we’d be going out for six-dollar margaritas at Lat-Cat like the whole group used to do, but just us two.
What does it feel like to know you are enough?
I have thought about the possibility that maybe the only one to blame is me. Not because I’m not enough, but because I don’t know what “enough” means.
So, who do I blame if I’m not enough?
What is enough?
Sunscape III– Sam Cunniff
