Tonight was all kinds of wonderful. One of the best nights I’ve ever had. It was filled with friends old and new, red wine, delicious food, singing and dancing and many many laughs. Everything about it was absolutely perfect. And yet there was a strangely disquieting feeling in the air for the entirety of the proceedings. That quiet kind of unease I usually feel during the last day of an extended trip somewhere, packing up in a hotel room. That combination fulfillment-disappointment-going back to real life. But tonight didn’t mark the end of anything, at least nothing that I’m aware of, and as much as it feels otherwise this is already my real life. So where does this solemn feeling of resolution come from? Why has this finality been with me through the entire day? Why does it feel like I’m stuck in a TV series finale? I recognize everyone and everything, so why do they stroll into my periphery in such an oddly poignant way, like they’re getting just enough “screen time” to resolve their “character arc”? Why am I so vividly aware of the minutiae of our interactions? Why do their eyes fall on me in cheesy slow motion? Why is every hug accompanied by Puccini in the background? And why the hell do I keep expecting it to fade to black and for credits to suddenly start rolling?
Whatever. This is most likely my brain being ridiculous and looking for ominousness where there is none. Truthfully, it was a wonderful, wonderful night, and I’m going to sleep with a stupid goofy smile on my face. But I swear to God, if I hear Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” playing somewhere, I am going to freak the fuck out.