Quantifying happiness can be a tricky business.
A new life awaited me beyond the horizon. I cried on the plane as I left my old one. The promise of a future has a strong lure. It was the worst winter in 30 years is what the voice on the radio said. The ashen salt stained streets laid out for miles, flanked by black decaying piles of snow, I looked out the windowing longingly. Longing for a sign of color, a color besides the endless parade of red brake lights on the road in front of me. “I fucking hate this city” I thought to myself as I felt tears well up near the bottom of my eyes. I had openly cried in my car before, I didn’t really want to make a habit of it, so I turned the radio away from a a droning newsman to music.
The change didn’t really make much of a difference because all I was thinking about was the phrase I had just uttered aloud. “I fucking hate this city.” How long do you have to live somewhere before you can fairly past judgement on a place? How long do you have to be somewhere until feels like home? It’s so strange to be in familiar places, with familiar faces, but have nothing be the same at all. It takes a hard heart to think about last year without becoming nostalgic or emotional. “Stay empirical” I thought to myself. “What is it you want?” Quantifying happiness can be a tricky business.
Mountains and beaches, travel and adventure, I remember I used to laugh and look forward to things. Positive people, friends made, niches carved, hobbies practiced. This city is too big, cruel, impersonal. Traffic, congestion, concrete and taxes. Smaller with culture? An impossibility?
I came here with a hope of going home, but I was never homesick until I arrived.