Making Pots

My life once again, expands before me like the horizon. Everything is so big and beautiful and intense. I feel happy, angry, sad and messed up all in one. Its like being in a glass box, and seeing how beautiful the world is, but not being quite able to touch any of it... Somehow, for me, the only way to ever appreciate how extraordinary everything is, is to pull myself into third person and just watch everything that happens around me. If you let yourself slip into the world, its never that potent or poignant.. If you get involved, everything gets gross and messy somehow, and too physical... Much too physical to be beautiful.
Today was nice. A potter came to campus, and I spent a nice afternoon making pots. There are two and I think I'll let them dry and then paint them. Its amazing how nice it felt. I think I should quit law school, buy a potters wheel and make pots my entire life. Now that would be satisfying.
Maybe the simpler you make your goals, the happier you become.But I suppose its easier said than done really. I mean, I think I'm a simple person, I don't think I want all that much out of life. I know for a fact that I'm neither ambitious nor competitive, and for the most part I don't think I strive to do too much... Basically I'm a lazy fuck.. So then why do I feel lost all the time? Why do I feel like something is always just out of my grasp, just grazing the tips of my fingers?
I've come to think that its some sort of a personal failing, maybe it is, and hopefully I'll deal with it someday. But its one of those things that won't get dealt with till I really want to deal with it.
So much of the beauty I see in the world, is probably attractive to me because I can't have it.
People always want they can't have eh? Thats just how everything operates. Those few fleeting moments during the week when I actually feel truly happy, are always tense with the knowledge that the feeling won't last till the morning. My head hits the pillow happy, and then I wake up and I have to build my happiness all over again. Brick by brick.
God, its tiring. Its like making pots. But not that satisfying or that therapeautic.
Life man. Where's my zephyr when I need it?