I think it was Montherlant who said that happiness writes white: it doesn't show up on the page. [...] Who else but Tolstoy has really made happiness swing on the page?
Martin Amis, London Fields, p. 23
It's true. When I was happy before, in those very specific moments when there's no good reason to be happy but you just are, like when I'd walk out to grab something from Tesco and the sun was shining and I had plans with friends for the day, I remember my body feeling light and my mind blank.
I've realised that's what I'm hoping for. Hope may be too positive a word, what I'm feeling is more of a passive want. I imagine it wouldn't be euphoric, more like serene, or at least what I understand as serene. (I don't know if it's always been like this and I've just hidden it well, but recently it seems I'm not as sharp as I used to be. So we'll go with that - "what I understand as serene".) Just solid, middle-of-the-road nice. Some sort of relief as well. Like when you hit your toe on a piece of furniture and there's the initial pain that makes you draw a sharp breath, but then after a few seconds you breathe out and the worst is over. It's not so much that it gets better, but it's not bad anymore. It's bearable. It's nice to know that you can bear things.
