Bookmark #527

You get happy for a little bit and you posit foul play. Surely, you tell yourself, it cannot be like this forever and just like that. Clearly, there must be a catch. There has to be something that goes wrong soon enough, and you wait for it, on most occasions, rather ardently. It prevents you from immersing yourself into the sea of what is good and noble, and it brings you nothing but disappointment in the end. But, which is worse, it brings you the proud feeling of correctly predicting the demise of your joy for it is never the same; life always finds a way to change itself. And then, when the inevitable and rather obvious comes to pass, you think this is the correct way to live—to always second-guess your happiness. I believe I am more than guilty of squeezing the life out of pleasure softly, day by day, only because of my belief that things will turn sour eventually—which they did, as they must. I have done this a long time until now.

Now, in some cruel irony, when I find myself facing even an ounce of happiness, I think of the same thing. Surely, I tell myself, it cannot be like this forever and just like that. Clearly, there must be a catch. Since there is a catch, I must revel in this ounce of joy like I devour fresh honey on a crispy toast. I must not let even a single bite escape me. I must taste each molecule of that honey and I must savour each crumb of bread, and I must remember this snack, and with it, I shall remember this moment as it looks to me right now. Things go wrong, as they should, and then, they get better, as they should, and in the end, we only remember the honey on the toast, and we remember the evening, and we remember nothing much beyond that. Life has a way of helping us forget. We remember to laugh in the end, and we remember the meals and the moment and the stories.

Do you remember? We almost lost hope that day if it was not for that talk of honey. Almost. All hope is almost lost, and then, it is found again, and somewhere within that is the story of humanity, of all of us who have ever lived, and perhaps, all of us who are yet to begin.

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here