I’m in Italy this week and the country, despite being radiantly beautiful, does not particularly agree with me. It’s hot and I hate the heat. All the lakes look the same to me. What I like are the trees—crypress, stone pine, downy oak—and the way they line the narrow winding trees.
On vacation, you’re forced to sit still. Something about my difficulty doing so makes me think about how all my life I’ve been searching a very elusive state. It’s a sense of rightness that I find difficult to articulate to others except when I know they’re searching for it too. I’ve found it in certain rooms, forests, coffee shops, people. It’s the reason why I never felt comfortable with any therapist until I met my current one. It’s the reason why I’ll buy several versions of a particular piece of clothing until I find one I want to keep.
I think the constant sense of needing to search is the driving force of my restlessness. It’s turned me into an obsessive. I am always puzzling over why things are the way they are and how they could be different. I’m sensitive to minor changes in the environment around me. I care about the shape of the coffee table, the color of the vase.