I never have words for happiness. When I am happy, I am at a loss. Like fireflies on a hot summer day, these moments flicker. I pause with bated breath to catch one, cup it within my hands. And, when one does flutter into my waiting hands, I can only gaze in awe.
To be honest, I only know how to write when I’m riddled with anxiety. Then the words flow readily as I try to muddle through for some clarity. Mat is always wary when he finds me curled in a corner with a fine tipped pen and notebook.
“What are you up to,” he’ll say, trying to be nonchalant.
“Just journaling,” I reply.
“Oh…Is something wrong?” he asks, tentatively.
Which is sad to me. That me writing suggests that something must be wrong. But, yes, I’m not quite sure how to write as a happy person. It seems obnoxious. And even if I were to say to hell with it I’m still baffled at how to detail this perfect feeling of peace. Everything I write pales in comparison and also sounds exaggerated and trite.
Yet I will continue to try. Because I want to remember how I felt at this moment: letting out a sigh of relief that I survived my first year of dental school as I embrace the seven weeks I have at home.