This quote by Somerset Maugham has been flitting around in my brain all day:
(I have never read any of his books, but this quote spoke to me loud and clear, so much so that I laminated it and it lives in my address book, which seems fitting.)
"I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to wchich he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest."
— The Moon and Sixpence
I am out of sorts.
Restless, pissy, quick to offend, and take offense.
Is it spring (= change, rebirth, molting), summer's a'coming sadness, the time change, the fact that I'm reading Still Alice (about a woman with early onset Alzheimer's)?
I don't know.
Time to rearrange the furniture.