fickle mistress

Mood is a fickle mistress. One moment, you can be singing loudly to the stereo in your car, the other moment, the sounds can be just as loud, but your voice is gone. Your eyes are filled with sorrow. And with joy. How can it be both? Of course you don’t trust the author enough to believe that two contradictory things can exist at the same time. The answer: nostalgia. I read somewhere that nostalgia is just optimism looking backwards. I think that’s beautiful. Poignant. Sharp. To the point. It’s beautiful.

Mood is a fickle mistress. One moment, you can be atop your own mental Everest. The other, you can slowly be sinking into the depths of your mind, the dark caverns below the sea, where megalodons still live.

I have some incredible memories in life. That’s just it. At the time of writing, they’re memories. And at the time of conception of this idea, they were drowning me in waves of sorrow. At the time of writing, I live in a pit of toxicity. At the time of conception, I was dealing with it. Those memories, those incredible moments with unbelievable people. I was driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the habit that started out as a thing of comfort, continued because it felt cool, and now cemented as a habit. Just an overwhelming wave of sorrow. Might be my fault. I’m surrounded by unhappy people. I could cut some of them out of my life. But we’ve been through so much. Regardless, my mind flashed through memories with one of the most incredible people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. The sorrow was absolute. Those memories, that relationship, not coming back. They’re stuck in the past.

Mood is a fickle mistress. You can be roasted alive by your memories, be drowning in sorrow and it might change its mind. It’s like one of those clunky monitors in a hospital. The line going up and down means that you’re alive. When it is a straight line, no movement, no sound, no life. With joy comes sorrow. With sorrow comes joy. You need one or the other. And the other. Otherwise you’ll lose yourself in a haze of emotionless robotic actions. Motion without emotion. Movement without passion. Why do you think dancing appeals to us so?

I thought of her. My eyes stung because of the tears being held back by habit, by force. If they released, sure my heart would be lighter. But society had engrained, as it does to those of my gender, this idea that to cry is to show weakness. And if you show weakness, you might as well be dead. Even when no one else is looking. I don’t subscribe to those notions. But it seems I might based on my reluctance to cry. The memories were sweeping in from above and below. From in front and behind and all sides. Swarming me like a pack of rabid birds, scavengers out for a hunt. Chomping on my decaying mental state. And then… and then I thought of her smile. And of her smiling. Where ever she is, I hope she’s happy. And I smiled. And the light came back.