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What is your name?

I do not as yet know the name of this mood which envelopes and permeates me (for that is what a mood is: something which seems to be external, like a virus which you absorb, and then emanates from you to infect or, to make it more positive, color the world--white when joyous, a somber gray when melancholy).

Being a master and reader of moods, this one baffles me: I am in neither pole of the extremes, and, more interestingly, also not in between. I am not anxious, not hyper and happy, nor am I saddened by who knows what because this one has no object or reason. But what I do see and hear is a silence which has yet no name (and everything begins with naming something).

Silence, yes, a silence which is neither pregnant nor wise, far from that which conditions the sound of solitude; this is not a comfortable silence, but it is not something that I cannot bear. What am I talking about? Again: it is a silence which, far from me wanting to drown it with the noise of work and entertainment, is a silence I want to amplify, to double or triple, in order to really hear what it says. Perhaps it is like the silence of the monotonous beeping of the television when the stations have signed off, or like the barking of distant dogs or someone sweeping the streets, a silence that you can hear and be annoyed at, yet, at the same time, something you can also disregard as nothing. Then it is a loud silence, I must conclude. How to mute it?

I've analyzed myself already and have come up with the following: just came back a few days ago from a long vacation (conclusion: hangover from a high, happy time and place with family and now I'm back to being mostly alone all day); have not yet been able to regularize my sleep (and sleep is religion to me); seeing friends again for the past few nights did lift me up, but I wake up still realizing that, apart from them and family, I really had no one to go home to (no one to be excited about, no one to miss dearly, no one to welcome me). What has been good, however, these past few days is that I've been able to read again, to prepare for class and for my own amusement (started on Kierkegaard and continuing Nietzsche). But I also know that that is not a very good sign--I only read like this when something's the matter.

Diagnosis: something's the matter, it has no name and is quiet, but I know that if you ask me in a few weeks what happened, I shall respond with a smile that It was nothing.

Neither boredom nor idleness (hence the need to work), somewhere between restlessness and weariness (hence the need to sleep more), neither depression nor mania--what is this mood which welcomed me?

I'll guess: this is what we call being normal. Funny thing is, being normal takes a lot more work because now you have to earn every happiness.


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