Wrongfooted, tired. Where is that sense of accomplishment, the euphoria? I think I am uncomfortable with being happy, and the stress of maintaining it. Sometimes I almost think I do things on purpose to screw myself over because I can't deal with the aftermath of happiness, of having to adjust to the clogging misery again; it seems each time it's easier to deal with it but you're more weary of it. Why this desperate arch towards happiness? A constant level of anxiety at least fades to static after a time. The cultural norms here of being happy and well-rested and wholesomely and balanced are distracting me.
Je suis resté immobile, j’ai pensé très fort à toi ;
Réalisant la joie immense de te voir vivre sous mon toit ;
C’est vrai, je ne te l’ai jamais dit -ni trop fort, ni tout bas-
Mais tu sais ma fille chez nous, il y a des choses qu’on ne dit pas.
– Lettre a ma Fille
And what does it all mean? What am I doing? I desperately want to read tomorrow but I have a table of dirty dishes to clean from Asia-Pacific Regional Day today, and then I have to do the Math IA that's due Monday, and catch up on homework that I've missed, and revise my EE.
I think I will sleep now. As long as I don't stop – I'm winning, right? Winning at life. Life would be so much easier if I just liked the right people, everyone of them, the ones I should.