I’m in a mood.
Not sure what kind of mood, but my soul feels tired. If a soul could sigh, mine would’ve done so many times today. My burdens aren’t heavy, I’m not sleep-deprived, the sun kissed my face today while I read from my new book, and I’ve been productive with my chores and my writing. But a mellowness dims my enjoyment of the day and I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like I’m looking at the world through nostalgia-tinted glasses.
I miss how life used to be. Don’t we all? I miss when things were uncomplicated and I knew what I wanted out of this life and I was still young enough to believe that I could get all that I wanted. I miss strutting through the halls in high school and knowing all the answers. I miss when friends were true friends and you called them up on the weekends to go to Wal-mart and buy a container of raw cookie dough so you could eat it as we talked about everything else. I miss when I was young enough to sleep on a trampoline under the stars with no concern for bugs and old enough to be able to name a few of the constellations. I miss when I could sing sad songs because I thought they were pretty and I could twirl around in a dress in tune with the melody, completely innocent as to what the lyrics meant.
I’ve really enjoyed this whole novel-writing month, but writers carry a terrible burden with them. They know people and they can look at life in a much different way than others do. The good writers can snag a reader with a few, well-paced words that could wring an emotional connection from anyone, even a professional assassin. Mediocre writers can at least explain to a reader what they feel inside. Even bad writers can wrench a reaction from inside themselves. I don’t know that category I fall into but somehow the emotions hit me with more force than they used to and I’m unsure about how to deal with it.
I’m used to people telling me that my face is hard and stony, that I build walls around every living piece of me, that I need to let someone in to soften my heart and feel something. I’m used to the robotic facade that display to the world. I’m used to feeling everything, but in moderation. Addicted to my own personal version of Novacaine, I ignored the sensations that would pop up and numbed myself to the full spectrum of human emotion.
But now I feel. Maybe I’m enduring the withdrawal symptoms. Maybe I dislike change. Maybe it’s like shaking your foot awake after it’s fallen asleep. Whatever it may be, I don’t like it.
Maybe this mood I’m in is pouting.
Maybe I’m lonely and just need chocolate.
Maybe it’s just a mood.