Yesterday’s melancholy was quite out of the ordinary. Thankfully the normal order of things has since been restored.
I feel small.
I know without doubt the soundness of the truth, yet I tempt myself with delusions of the salience of a lie. Where I should already be so confident and able, I strive to do well but fail consistently. I don’t trust myself any more; I risk so much for so little in return. And I feel no comfort because everything that remains can crumble in an instant.
I feel even smaller.
What do I want? Would I know that I had it, if indeed it was mine already?
Or perhaps I should ask, how much should be enough? And is that objectively or subjectively determined – for me to decide, or to be decided for me?
Alas, no answers are forthcoming…
Actually, I feel nothing. Whatever momentary delusion I was under certainly doesn’t reflect any ongoing state of being. Must have been a glitch.
I could, of course, be angry. Recently I’ve been given plenty of reason to be viciously enraged. But I’m not. I could be annoyed senseless at certain people or things. There’s ample justification. …Nope, not. I could rail against the situations and circumstances, fly off the handle, be downright mean. Perhaps that would fix a few things. At least things would change.
There’s just nothing there. It’s easier not to feel them at all.
Vanilla is a flavour, after all…