Everything is Fine

​​Most days, I wonder if we’re all born with the same dull ache.

If each of us were stripped down to our souls and examined, would the observer see the same things? A lifetime of subtle dissatisfaction and uneasiness.  A longing for something unclear. A relentless tiredness not soothed by rest.

Or, worse yet, is it only some of us who house this deep despair?

I prefer to believe we all harbor insatiable doubt and dread. And in each of us exists a void so massive that nothing fills it. Not God. Not love.

A sense of misery that remains dormant until acknowledged. Lucky are those who pay no attention.

This unhappiness, this discomfort, is often so quiet that there are no words to put to it. One simply shrugs and says, “I’m okay,” because they are, and “Everything is fine,” because it is.