Whenever I make a major decision—something that may potentially change the course of my life, like a ship avoiding an iceberg—I can always tell it was a good decision if I end up feeling a sense of serenity, a feeling that, if I spread my arms wide enough, I can just let the world in, let it engulf me and take me. At the risk of killing this buzz, I must admit that I haven’t felt that inner peace in quite a while.

But today, as I sat writing on a bench in Merchant’s Square, I felt like somehow, I just belonged there. For a moment, I was at peace with the world, with myself. The sun, the breeze—everything was as it should be.

But then…it was gone. This feeling of serenity, of peace, seems to disappear once I observe it actually taking place. Like the electrons of an atom, my mental state collapses once I examine it, once I notice it, into either ennui or excitement. Atoms, then, are not the only things that are quantum in nature.

My mind is sometimes my own worst enemy—I could let go, escape, if only it would let me. Now I feel as though I am on a quest to capture the moment I experienced earlier; but since I know I am searching for that peace, it seems like it will elude me, just like the position of an electron.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing about this—hoping that by writing about the moment, I can somehow recapture it. But, alas, deep down in the depths of my psyche, even I know that such an attempt is ultimately futile.

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I’ve been advised to leave my apartment and interact more with real flesh-and-blood humans—or at least grab a cup of coffee at a café, for God’s sake. These are probably some wise words, since returning to my apartment has already sapped a lot of energy.