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I have a problem and I haven't been able to figure out what it is. I'm not sad, but I'm not exactly happy. I'm just stuck in the middle of a crisis that I feel like I can't solve. There's only one thing that makes me remotely happy: nature. The feeling of a gentle breeze caressing my skin, or...

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.