I am not sad

He awo­ke each mor­ning with the desi­re to do right, to be a good and meaningful per­son, to be, as simp­le as it sound­ed and as impos­si­ble as it actual­ly was, hap­py. And during the cour­se of each day his heart would des­cend from his chest into his sto­mach. By ear­ly after­noon he was over­co­me by the fee­ling that not­hing was right, or not­hing was right for him, and by the desi­re to be alo­ne. By evening he was ful­fil­led: alo­ne in the magni­tu­de of his grief, alo­ne in his aim­less guilt, alo­ne even in his loneli­ne­ss. ›I am not sad‹, he would repeat to hims­elf over and over, ›I am not sad‹. As if he might one day con­vin­ce hims­elf. Or fool hims­elf. Or con­vin­ce others – the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. ›I am not sad‹. ›I am not sad‹. Becau­se his life had unli­mi­t­ed poten­ti­al for hap­pi­ness, inso­far as it was an emp­ty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some dome­sti­ca­ted ani­mal that was no part of him at all. And each mor­ning he would wake with it again in the cup­board of his rib cage, having beco­me a litt­le hea­vier, a litt­le wea­k­er, but still pum­ping. And by mid­af­ter­noon he was again over­co­me with the desi­re to be some­whe­re else, someone else, someone else some­whe­re else. ›I am not sad‹.
(Jona­than Safran Foer – Ever­y­thing is Illuminated)