I did not enjoy myself today, even though I should have. Everybody else seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and I alone seemed to have not. What was the problem? I simply was not having any fun, even though I demonstrated smiles and laughs and played my role as fantastically as could a vaudeville. Indeed there were instances where I was playing my role so meticulously that I began to believe that I was actually having fun; the happiness was genuine. So why couldn’t I immerse myself in the spirit of insouciance, in the pond of fun where all the others were prancing delightedly?
When I looked about me, around the table, everything fell silent. All I saw were the mouths of people moving, as if in some sort of ether; and I could not be a part of it. Or perhaps I did not want to be a part of it. I have never wanted to be a part of it, and I don’t know why. I don’t like having fun. I don’t like participating in celebrations; jumping in laughter with a crowd, gathering close to take a photograph, talking about this and that matter, about the past, merrily, fondly, wistfully; I don’t like being asked by people whom I have not spoken to in a long time how things are in my life; I don’t like sitting at a table and enjoying a commemorative feast; I don’t like commemorating anything.
I like more to appear as if I were having fun; but having fun itself is nothing of delight to me.
Maybe I’m just tired and I have other things on my mind.