Call it overblown paranoia but it must be some unpredicted undulation in cosmic alignments that made my life seem too easy these days it’s starting to freak me out.
Given the previous sentence it wouldn’t require one to have an omni-level intelligence quotient to glean that I have issues. And that maybe not far from being right. My feeling is that life is sometimes too wicked to bear: it would kick you where it really hurts when you aren’t looking. Or it would decide to drop the other shoe when you’re all dressed up for that grand ball in the gates of dreamy bliss. So as a certified skeptic I adopt the constancy of anticipating for when dire things explode. That way I can always shrug off the self-fulfilling prophecy, smarten up and wait for the next blow. But what’s so liberating is the relief when I’m proven wrong. That there are times the universe can be so benevolent even to me.
To which I am truly grateful.
The only strange thing is: I have facility of being eloquent being miserable than for when I am truly happy. A couple of avid voyeur of this blog may have missed it but maybe I’d point out that all the best scenes in my life are either omitted in the archiving of a so-called life.
It’s not because I’m secretive. Selfish, maybe, but not secretive. I feel at times that all the best moments are for private consumption. That these moments shouldn’t be open for public viewing. But that’s not entirely true.
In reality I am at loss when I’m happy. Words blur and sensations detonate beyond description, leaving me fumbling for clarity, holding to exhale.
Most people wouldn’t have exact same trouble. Some are more inspired when happy than when they are wistful. Oh well, to each his own facility, his own gift to articulate an experience, a feeling, a sensation.
Case in point this entry: I started typing with crisp ideas forming constellations in my head and the minute I typed the first benign word they dissolve into impaired ramblings. Gone are details of previous days or the ecstatic minutiae of hours worth documenting with fondness.
Happiness does this to me.
It reduces me into incapacity to share it to both willing and accidental voyeurs. Happiness makes me inarticulate, which some people misconstrue as concealment two blinks away from selfishness.
I wouldn’t argue nor deny. I plead guilty for selfishness. That’s convenient.
That way all disputes germinating will be frozen halfway and I’ll blink twice and won’t resist a pensive smile.