I’m reading word after word of blissful comedy. A vinyl is on, the grey night falling over the city. I look a bit silly, sitting on the sofa and crying of laughter. Silly, or deranged, but the book is too funny. And laughter feels too good.
I’m running down the hill, feet frozen wet, lungs burning, head spinning. The fresh snow won’t last and I’m an exhausted mess. I launch my arms into the air, looking – yes, silly, or deranged. But the landscape is too beautiful. And movement feels too good.
I’m taking a nap after lunch, slowly dozing away, every breath a little slower. And as I wake up, it feels so indulgent, so precious, to steal a moment and do nothing with it but sleep. I talk to myself as I return to reality. Yes, silly, or deranged.
In all these moments, and plenty more, I feel happy, content. I feel joyful.
Joy – is on nobody’s lips right now. Really there aren’t that many reasons to feel joy when you look at our planet, even if you curate your newsfeed carefully. It’s not the most joyful of moments, all things considered. Maybe that’s the exact reason why every song, every ray of sun, every sip of wine is a source of greater joy than before.
Call it what you want – bipolarity, hedonism. Survival? But the good has never been so good.
Joy, at this point, is the gift I didn’t expect. It’s the soothing lotion, the potion preparing me for the world outside.