Forever January

“I’ve come to the realisation that I will never be happy.”

I look across the table at The Yankee and twist my lips in a half-smile of irony. “I think I’m in the same boat,” I reply. “And what’s worse, when I go back in my mind to try and remember a time I was TRULY happy — when nothing was wrong in my world and there was no dissatisfaction — I can’t recall anything. Nothing. I don’t have any memories of true happiness.”

“None? Whatsoever?”

“None. It seems I’ve been miserable in one form or another my entire life. Life is sad. It’s suffering. And I suffer it well, it seems.”

And such confessions I’ve made to no one else. The words were always there under the belly of my tongue, slinking in the dark — hiding. But now they’ve come to the light, exposed their dirtiness in the brightness of day.

Life is a continuum of misery. And I suffer it well.