I search for a moment of stillness, in between the past and the present, in between the has-been and the will-be. That one moment of perfect balance, when everything is as it should be, and I can truly say I’m happy and believe it. Unfortunately, happiness is fleeting and misery much more common. Every end is a beginning, they say but I killed a bug yesterday, squashed it with a piece of paper. And afterwards, I felt a pang of regret. This end has no beginning. This end is the end of this life. Before my end, will there be a moment of stillness? One moment, one single moment, one single solitary moment, that’s all I could ever ask for.
And yet every moment seems tempered by its own evanescence. There were fireflies in the night, flickering like tiny stars. I sat on a rock and watched them, trying to draw constellations between their always shifting shapes. It was a moment of serenity, maybe that stillness I search for. And yet, it was over and I felt hollow, for lack of a better word, as if scooped out from within. This moment had passed and each moment from now would be a disappointment, each fading into the other, each as elusive as the next. Until another moment.
I wonder why happiness is always in the past tense for me. I am not happy now. I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m good. I’m not happy. When we pass each other, and you say hi, how are you, do you really care? No. No one does. Its banal. Its endlessly repeating, interaction after interaction, caught in an endless spiral like Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Its a specter that haunts me, the ghost of moments past, those I will never have again. Of times long gone, of ages past. I’m 23 now, and I will never again be 16, 17, 18.
What happens now?