Disquiet

The best word that I have ever found to describe my current state is Disquiet. It is from the title of a book, The Book of Disquiet, by an apparently unknown Portuguese poet named Fernando Pessoa. I bought this book a few weeks before I began dating the girl from the previous post, after having told her months before that I couldn't be just friends and then removed her from my life. I have yet to finish this book. I keep picking it up during times like this, and then dropping it when I yank myself out of my oblivion of self-introspection.

Disquiet is not quiet, yet it is not unquiet. To me, it means a low, almost imperceptible sound, heard in the background, that alerts one that something is not quite right in the world. The disquiet I hear, in my mind, is the sound resonating in the gap between who I am, where I am, what I am and the person that I pretend to be, both to myself and others. The last few years of my life has consisted of my (pathetic? Sometimes.) attempts to close that gap, to feel right with how things are and will be.

I acknowledge that I can not control the world; my dad said to me once that the absolute maximum you can control is the circle whose circumference is drawn by your fingertips as you spin around in place, with your arms outstretched. I think that's very true.

I hope my next great leap, into Medical School, make my world a little better. I think that it will, but who knows?

Frustratingly, when I am honest with myself, I believe that my sense of Disquiet will become inaudible only when I find The Girl. It could be that everyone is built like that. Only time will tell, I suppose.