I've been sitting at my desk, upwards of 10 minutes, trying to think of a happy thought.
And I got nuthin'.
Surely not because there are no happy thoughts — that's a ridiculous conclusion to draw. And even more surely not because I don't have anything to be happy about. That's total blaspheme.
Nevertheless, I've come up short in my ten minute task because I don't want to be happy right now. I want to mourn, I want to suffer, I want to cry and listen to my Feel It & Let It Be playlist (that heavily slants Coldplay) with a bottomless box of Kleenex at my hip...
I used to get offended when people (mostly old boyfriends) told me "You just want to be mad!"
"What fucking sense does that make?" I'd retort, steadfast in my denial that I were self-destructive enough to make that choice. But the truth? They were right. It was what I wanted. But why?
If there is a meadow of flowers at my left side, and a leech-laden ditch at the other, why would I want to tumble right? Why not frolic in the field until I'm drunk on freesia pheromones and I've got pollen for hair?
If I had the answer, this would be a much longer post. Instead, I would simply like to state, if for no other reason than to remember, that I at least love the smell of freesias.