Existential flu

It’s not the first time I’m feeling like this and I know it won’t be the last.

Perhaps you know the feeling – in fact I’m sure you do. I just don’t have a name for it so I’ll try to explain as well as I can.

This is it. This is how I feel. Thank you, Tove

Jansson, once again. And thanks to my lovely

mother for buying me this reassuring mug.

It’s the feeling that takes over you when everyone has fallen asleep and you’re the only one still awake, unable to sleep; this has been the case since I was a kid and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep comfortably with others in the same room. It’s the feeling when all noises cease and suddenly it is all quiet. It’s the feeling when you’re surrounded by people, there’s a lot of chattering and in the middle of all that you begin to realise you don’t fully belong. And yet, even though you know you don’t belong you fear the moment those people will be gone. It’s the feeling when everything is normal and yet so utterly, terribly out of place. You cannot put your finger on it nor can you explain it but it is even harder to shed the feeling. And then, all of a sudden, there is an icy lump of a great weight in your stomach and you shiver – and you realise how alone and out of place you are.

It’s usually happens at night or one of those times when you sense something is different even if it’s not. You want it to be over, you want to calm down but you can’t.

An apology is in order, I think: I ramble quite a lot but usually there is at least a little bit of sense somewhere. So I’ll blow my nose and wait for my existential flu to pass.