Happiness In Love
I got an email message from a friend whom I haven’t seen in eons. We’ll be meeting up tomorrow to catch up on the goings-on, and settle our action plan for the wedding of our mutual friend. (Three people I know are getting married this year.)
In her email, she asked if I was happy, and I would customarily answer “in what way?” But when I visualize her morena face asking the question, arrows point to the lovelife, and at present I can’t give a straight answer. I can’t be happy or sad about an aspect of my life that doesn’t exist. Now if you think you sense an iciness in the previous statement, I assure you I’m smiling through it all.
The last relationship lasted less than a month, but it’s taken me over a year before I’ve stamped myself with a seal of relative calm. To a lot of young folks, a relationship that short relegates it to fling status. That would have been a great way for me to look at that chapter, but I just don’t believe in flings.
But during that tumultuous year that followed the break up, I’ve done a helluva lot of thinking in between sobbing and staring into the night sky, in addition to the catharsis of writing and drawing Zsazsa Zaturnnah. I’ve discovered new things about myself and how I operate, and even formulated a theory or two about my emotional machinery. Now I’m okay, as opposed to the oft-used and conviction-lacking “okey lang.” I don’t feel the need to move on anymore. I’ve moved far enough.
I’m not happy, and I’m not unhappy. And that should be alright.
I got an email message from a friend whom I haven’t seen in eons. We’ll be meeting up tomorrow to catch up on the goings-on, and settle our action plan for the wedding of our mutual friend. (Three people I know are getting married this year.)
In her email, she asked if I was happy, and I would customarily answer “in what way?” But when I visualize her morena face asking the question, arrows point to the lovelife, and at present I can’t give a straight answer. I can’t be happy or sad about an aspect of my life that doesn’t exist. Now if you think you sense an iciness in the previous statement, I assure you I’m smiling through it all.
The last relationship lasted less than a month, but it’s taken me over a year before I’ve stamped myself with a seal of relative calm. To a lot of young folks, a relationship that short relegates it to fling status. That would have been a great way for me to look at that chapter, but I just don’t believe in flings.
But during that tumultuous year that followed the break up, I’ve done a helluva lot of thinking in between sobbing and staring into the night sky, in addition to the catharsis of writing and drawing Zsazsa Zaturnnah. I’ve discovered new things about myself and how I operate, and even formulated a theory or two about my emotional machinery. Now I’m okay, as opposed to the oft-used and conviction-lacking “okey lang.” I don’t feel the need to move on anymore. I’ve moved far enough.
I’m not happy, and I’m not unhappy. And that should be alright.
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