Joy

It doesn’t help to call yourself a happy person, you know. It seems so out of tune with the rest of the world. Take reactions to sticky situations, for example. Initially, it ain’t sticky to me because I know things can’t be dreary and difficult all the time. And there’s always ice cream and comic strips even when things seem down. But someone else will think me mad. Cold even. “Who tries to be happy all the time?” they’ll say. “Tsk tsk” or “Bah!” they’ll say.
But in all the tears and burning eyes, I am thrilled when I hear someone sing while riding on the cycle. And I giggle when someone from the bus shoots a stream of red pan juice on a biker’s sparkly white shirt and realizing what he’s in for, quickly ducks before the biker can spot him. I still have mind space to be enraged about companies suddenly replacing the smiley old pot-bellied watchmen with strapping young things not bothering to find out people’s names, and standing ram-rod straight just all the time; never a “hello”, never a “tiffin over?” When I smell freshly ground coffee, eat yummy breakfast(at times even i get to have one), and go to college everyday sure that I can walk up to the class through the long long corridor to get in the class before my usual time, which is 5 minutes after the college starts, I’m content. Tell me a few bad jokes, and I’ll sleep happy that I’m funnier than everyone in the world.
As if these things are important, people tell me. If your own life is all messed up, how dare you not be worried about it? Or be worried about it by yourself? How can you run away from the problem by thinking of the time in the future when the problem will be long forgotten? How can you not want to share it with someone who’s dying to help?
I want to talk about it, I too need help. But admitting that is admitting that there is a low in my life. And I count no lows, right?
DAMMIT, sometimes, I tire of all the lying to myself.