Joy makes me uncomfortable. The bubbling excitement in my chest replaced the ache but has nowhere to go as I have no way to express it with any comfort. My attempts are awkward, corny, boring.
But now I am greedy for it.
I don't want anything less than the joy I sometimes feel for no reason because it makes me nervous. Who am I to deserve this? When will it be snatched from me by the inevitable?
Joy still does not sit well in my body, perched, anxiously waiting. I focus, I meditate on enjoyment. I try and wake myself up out of the sleep of passive distraction, and do everything I can to not engage. I must work for everything, and fly in the face of nothing.
People more often than not prefer to sleep and connection is hard even without the distraction of distraction. There is so much right in front of me, smells, tastes, sounds, full of color and chorus and purple-y gold citrus. I can see why this is frightening, this heaven. I am startled by how much I love it, how much I want it.
I do not contort myself in order to enjoy anything, it all comes easy. The less I think, the more I love, the less I maneuver, the better I float in the tide of sensation.
Can I enjoy this human experience without other humans? Can I be only me, floating in the detritis of my activity without arousing suspicion?
But who would suspect?
Soon my joy will be more of a comfort and I will turn over all the pages of my life to this happy monotony which no one will wish to read.
But its enough to have lived it.