Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness and why it seems to so often elude me.
“Are we happy?” is a question I find I am constantly asking myself.
Sometimes the answer is a flat “no”. More often than not, it’s a mental shrug followed by an, “I don’t know” or a, “mehmmph”. But it’s never a, “yes”…
It’s all falling apart.
The world, the country, myself, and now my house.
Does anyone know how to fix a doorknob by the way?
Because mine is currently resting in my hand.
I think I can fix it. I think it’s fixable.
The rest of it all feels Big and out of my control.
Last week, I ended with several questions that I had no answers for—sort of shaking my fist angrily at my conception of Western Cultures of Grief and how they’ve fucked me up. Over the following week (lifetime), I looked for answers to those questions, internally and externally. Of course, I found no hard answers, but I think I might have found a few insights…
You felt good today. Productive, healthy. You felt yourself opening up, letting go, shedding ages of uncertainty and awaiting something new to lift you up and away. You saw the future. You felt control and purpose. You felt light and free, floating—but not aimlessly. You felt at ease with what was to come…