I’m always amazed when I feel lonely in New York City. It’s almost funny actually. Eight million people and I feel alone?
I should clarify… it’s almost never a “nobody loves me, I’m all alone in the world” kind of alone feeling—it’s ok mom, I’m fine. It’s usually more like a “for a moment everything is still and quiet and somehow for some reason in the midst of that quiet everything is also just a little bit sad” kind of feeling. And no matter how good things are or how much progress I appear to be making or how happy I feel… it happens.
(I don’t think I’m the only one it happens to.)
I’ve determined that for me it’s (usually) an indication of fatigue. It’s a tell all sign that I’ve reached some limit, hit a wall (or a ceiling)… It’s the result of non-stop work, of project juggling… A sign that I need to rest.
Tonight rest is “Six Feet Under: Season Three,” Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches and a six-pack of Stella.
I’m sure I’ll feel much better in the morning.