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I was borderline rude with an acquaintance in public today. And that’s not like me.

I don’t know the man well, but we always have a friendly chat when we run into each other. When he approached me in a restaurant Sunday evening, I just wanted him to go away. I wanted everyone to go away. He asked me how I was doing.

“Well, to be honest, I’m in a mood when I’d rather just have the whole world leave me alone,” I said.

I tried not to make it sound personal, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain. I made another comment or two, but I pointedly turned my attention to my MacBook’s screen.

He sat down near me and kept trying to chat. I replied as little as I could and I kept my eyes on the screen. He eventually finished eating and said goodbye. I told him I’d probably be more social again the next time he saw me.

After he left, I thought about the apparent contradiction in me today. I’ve been emotionally drowning on the inside, for a couple of reasons. I have walls up against the whole world and I don’t want to let anyone inside. I want to be left alone.

But I’ve also been a lost little boy — waiting for someone to rescue me.

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As I left dinner Saturday, it was about an hour before sunset. There had been a brief rainstorm, but there was a sudden break in the clouds — and the sunlight danced over the glistening world around me.

In the wet sparkle of water and light, the colors were vivid and everything was beautiful, like a triumphant scene from a movie. The world around me felt gorgeous and perfect. In those moments, I was in love with this life on Earth.

And then my attention shifted to some rude and uncouth people near me. I looked over in the car seat next to me and saw the mail from the IRS which arrived Friday, demanding that I pay another $300. And I thought of walking into the house right after opening the letter — and finding Molly dead.

In that moment, life felt unhappy and solitary. It felt miserable.

As I drove toward home, I found myself trying to resolve the extremes which I had just felt. Is this world a lonely and miserable place that’s our personal hell? Or is it a beautiful and amazing place of ecstasy that’s a personal paradise.

And in a blinding flash, I realized that it’s both — and I realized it can’t be paradise unless we’ve also experienced it as a hell.

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My little Molly has fallen asleep for the very last time.

On a cold October night in 2008, I started a “rescue mission” for two feral kittens. I had seen them around my house with an adult cat who I believed to be their mother. Then the mother cat disappeared. The two kittens huddled on my porch. And then it got cold one night.

I never intended to keep the two kittens, but those two turned into a total of six from their little family who came into my life. The kittens — who I eventually named Molly and Bessie — were too feral to be adopted by people who wanted sweet and loving cats. So I had no choice but to keep them. Over the past 13 years, I’ve struggled to save them and make their lives safe and comfortable.

That long rescue mission finally came to an end today. And even though I worked hard to give them all they needed, I somehow feel as though I failed them.

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