What is it?

Again and again, the feeling that life is something else. The feeling that in this handsome town, working with decent people, enjoying good health, loved by my family and adored by my dear nieces, I am barely alive.

Sitting in this room, looking out on an avenue, the feeling that every driver, cyclist, pedestrian is moving between groups to whom that individual is essential, while I sit here, alone, incapable of the most everyday utterance. When I hear myself speak, the sounds my words make pain me. What is lacking is any sense of being natural, comfortable in my skin.

A cat is my companion. I speak to her. I ask whether she is okay (a question I'd barely know if it were not for Won Sun), what she's been up to (sleeping, mostly), whether she remembers blackcat (another way of asking whether she'll remember me after I'm gone).

I try to make beautiful things, a daunting task. I plant flowers, they grow, they fade. I see the sky: it is often beautiful: I try to remember it, as if that will make a new beautiful object. I look at projects abandoned over the years and sigh.

What is it I'm hoping for?