I want to rant. Instead, I'm going back to my previous post to calm the fuck down. Yes, I'm swearing more and that's OK. It helps me with channeling "happy". As it were, I've been wanting to write a sequel to Happy. I'm calling it Dark 'n' Stormy, like the drink. I treat my drinking repertoire with the utmost respect and this involves a lot of research and patience. High-end rum, as it turns out, is much less expensive than other fermented, distilled and barrel-aged beverages, and finding the right ginger beer adds to the volume of controlled experiments. I'm up to the happy challenge.
Happy, happy. Lucky, lucky. It is with a heavy heart that I wake up every morning, yet I am determined to seek and find daily joy and, "happiness". In my experience, to proceed otherwise is unwise. Some days turn out to be hapless despite my best efforts, that's just how it is. As the trendy saying goes, I have "first-world" problems. Yes I do, but that doesn't make them any less valid or pertinent. To illustrate, let me lay out a less than stellar snapshot from a few months ago.
I was taking the day with a friend to walk around an affluent neighborhood and to enjoy a leisurely lunch. Upon exiting from one of many posh stores, we noticed a man, arms up, head down sideways with eyes closed, leaning upright against the store's highly-polished window. We both came to a startled stop, and my friend asked if I thought whether or not he was okay. I walked up to within inches of the man to look him over. He was deathly still in his unnatural pose, without perceptible breath or odour, and his skin had a waxy glow, like a sanitized "homeless" creation by Madame Tussaud. Suddenly I felt lightheaded, my perception shifted, and I let myself believe that I was witnessing a bizarre form of performance art, and more elaborately, that passersby were being filmed for their reactions. I confidently exclaimed that this was not a real person. Absolutely wretched. I dehumanized a fellow human being. My good friend had better sense and started talking to him, persistently, and after a few minutes, there was slight movement. Patiently, she waited until he responded, within only her earshot. In the distance, we could hear an ambulance approaching.
If I were still a practicing Catholic, this would make for an outstanding confession. As it goes, I delve deep into my psyche and search for understanding. The specter of this event continues to haunt me. An active imagination is one thing, but what can cause such an abrupt rupture with empathy? My anxiety had reached a tipping point, and my thought processes could no longer differentiate between nonsense and reality. Can I blame my new coping mechanism on living in a society struggling with its collective moral compass? Menopause? Too many questions and not enough answers. Forgiveness is for myself to give. My inner light is always on but I must take care and remember to always keep the curtains parted. Sometimes the storm is raging outside, other times it is within.
Please don't ask me if I'm happy or if I've found happiness. Of course I am and I have, every day. Happiness and feeling happy doesn't exist in a vacuum, nor is it a constant, and it is different every day. Dealing in so-called "positive" absolutes is both irrational and dangerous. Is there rhyme or reason for crappy to rhyme with happy? The malady of Great Expectations is only amplified by the booming Happiness Industry, which I dare say, is a detraction from, and formidably antithetical to its purported goal.
Happiness is the great expanse, the universe. It is a life-long exploration. How far you make it is all in your mind.
PS: Jean bought me a box of cereal for the days my mind needs a little help.
