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The world is out of focus for me tonight. It’s fuzzy. Unclear. Like looking through a camera lens that’s covered with raindrops.

The problem isn’t the world. The problem is in my head. Or in my heart. It’s hard to say. I just know I’m the problem. The world is still just as dysfunctional as ever, but it’s no different than it always is. The change is in me.

I didn’t enjoy dinner tonight. I didn’t enjoy the company I had. There was nothing wrong with the food. There was nothing wrong with the woman with whom I ate. But nothing felt right. Everything felt wrong.

I don’t know what I want.

There’s an empty feeling gnawing at me. I want something, but what? My life has always been centered around the answers to these questions. What do I want? What do I need? What am I trying to accomplish? Whose love am I trying to win? And now?

I don’t know what I want.

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I have real trouble loving other people.

I sometimes joke that there’s a wide-ranging conspiracy to turn me into a misanthrope — and the conspiracy’s working. But the truth is simpler than that. I’m hard on others because I’m even harder on myself. And it’s hard to stop silently screaming at others when the same inner voice is screaming at myself.

I really want to love other people. In my heart and soul, I know it would make the world a better place. When I was a child, I listened to preachers talk about loving everybody, but I was confused. I discarded their messages as “happy talk,” because I saw that most of them were selective about who they loved and who they hated when they weren’t preaching.

As an adult, I’ve had a growing understanding that Jesus was serious when he talked about loving others. It wasn’t just “preacher talk” that we could ignore until Sunday. The closer I’ve been to the Creator, the more I’ve felt that unconditional force of love — and the more I’ve known that love should connect us all.

But most of the time, I interact with imperfect people. I silently rage at them for not being perfect. For not being what I want them to be. For not being more like me.

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William had always been a loner. Although he lived with half a dozen cats and several dogs, he mostly kept to himself. He seemed happiest when he was alone.

And then a little black kitten named Dagny came along.

I don’t know quite how it happened, much less why. By the time Dagny had been in the household long enough to be just another member of the family, I finally noticed that she was joining William when he went off to be alone.

He used to love sleeping in a laundry basket in the sun. Soon, she was sleeping in that laundry basket with him. She was joining him when he slept on the back of a sofa. And before long, if one of them was sleeping on the bed — or watching out of a nearby window, as they were doing in the photo above — they were almost always together.

As far as I can tell, cats and dogs don’t have the concept of romantic love, much less marriage. But these two shared an unexpected bond — and it seemed to make both of them very happy.

William and Dagny are both long gone now, but I found myself thinking tonight that the mystery of their bonding isn’t much different than the mystery of a man and a woman falling in love with one another.

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