If the cousin to contentment, twice removed, had a love affair with the Byron of boredom, their offspring would be akin to my current mood.
Moments of contentment flash by, like the brilliant white of lightning, before the ever familiar rumble of thunder follows. Sometimes. I have such a feeling of calm that it feels as if all my tangles are merely a cryptic crossword waiting to be unlocked and understood.
The feeling is beautiful yet mercurial, like Emma Stone at a red carpet event.
Maybe happiness isn’t knowledge and acceptance built over time, but more like the tides … pulled to and fro with the whimsy of the moon and its gravitational garter. Maybe you need only faith and the flow of the sea to reap the grande jubilee. And like global warming, over time, my core temperature will rise, slowly toasting my cockles, crusty and choleric.
Sure, the proverbial polar is done for. But what is this? Reality?
Or maybe the best way to view one’s life is through a collage of casements – one for each moment you care to call upon continuously – and they can be framed in such a way as pose your plot any way you choose. Poetic for an epoch. Moving and mosaic for a minuet. Maybe.