I find that happiness, in its full moon, doesn’t let you jump off the cliff, when ideally you would like to do just that, in the limits of your own itinerary, every evening from 9 to 11, perhaps. Its platitude is warm and comforting, and its touch is sometimes sudden, but wears off quickly indeed. It can also last for days, at a steady temperature, not too hot to get you burnt, not too cold to get you running for company. You can find pleasure in the most common of places – food starts tasting good and necessary, instead of punitive, sleep is just enough, doing laundry doesn’t last an eternity, a single self-abhorring thought doesn’t dare drop over your head, alcohol is forgotten in the pantry, to-do lists can do you no harm (in fact, you find them a lot shorter than usual), you find the time to do stuff, just like kids find their presents on Christmas morning, freely, gladly, not asking too many questions on who, when or why. It just happens. Of course it’s a rarity. Being composed with how everyday life looks, at any given moment. The rest is just torture, both the necessary and unnecessary type. Fighting, surviving, inventing problems when there are not enough to make you feel afraid about tomorrow and today and all that’s next to it, overlooking them, when they become real and ready to invade your nook, turning it into who knows what. But then again, every once in a while, you’re happy and that puts things back in order. How that exactly works, I suspect no one knows and no one ought to know – maybe the magic would run away. It’s in your brain, they say, all about chemical reactions. A smell can act like a drug, a random thought that gets lost between a curse and a mildly mean remark, these can trigger the feeling, amongst many other, many unknown, facts. Let’s leave them like that.

She makes me happy, although, much to my discontent, I often make her cry. Come here, don’t do that, go there, quiet please, turn it off, no, I can’t right now, you see, mum has crap to do. Always the crap to do. Not right now, mum is tired and would rather drink a beer and enlarge her digital print onto the world (or whatever it is she thinks she’s doing), by writing a few paragraphs which will make her angry and which she’ll probably never be comfortable with, that’s how good random writing makes her feel, it’s merely digging graves for her thoughts and livings and whatever should drive her insane on that precise day. Or happy, again. Muuuuum, I want to tell you something, come and tell me, can you please… no, not right now, get you father to help you, I’m busy, I already told you that. We’ll do that puzzle later in the evening. Or in a few weeks, when I’ll be having more time. I never have more time, because it depends too much on me to find it.

I don’t like to post pictures of her. I’m not exactly sure why that would be. I don’t like it when people like pictures of her on facebook. It makes me feel guilty, it has something to do with her lack of consent there, it has something to do with a sort of fake validation that comes from here. It also has, I think, much more to do with the fact that she’s the biggest part of my life, and while I talk about anything and everything else, anytime, when it comes to her, I just smile and say it’s all really great, really, really great. She marks the boundary I’m not comfortable to cross, she’s part of my most personal life because she’s the only thing in it that’s not mine. My being her mother involves not the slightest possession – quite contrary to what I had said here, when I introduced her to those of you who weren’t aware of her little being. I don’t want to talk about what it feels to be with her – I can only say that she’s brought the most unexpected treasures into my life.

my-little-girl She keeps bugging me, lately, with one thing – when I even mildly admonish her, she frowns and begins her already typical line: “you’re not happy, why aren’t you happy, you HAVE to be happy. please, I want to see your happy face”, and if my energy at the time doesn’t allow me to produce convincing enough a smile, she panics and runs to her room, (pretendingly) crying. I am happy, little one, much more than I’d have ever thought I would be. It sounds cheesy, because I feel happy right now as well, and that spares me the trouble of being deadpan.

*We took these pictures in September, for a contest (we didn’t win, nope). It was a nice evening, though.


2 thoughts on “September

  1. Cristina Chismore

    Cat e de frumoasa ea, in rochita ei cu buline! Si si-a ales o replica foarte buna pe care sa ti-o repete. Omuletul de 3 ani a gasit o cale de a te manipula sa fii fericita, atunci cand nu esti sau nu vrei sa fii. :)

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