Happiness shined in front of my face, a dancing fluorescence. I drew her soft angles and bright center with my words, and as I scribbled, she giggled, whispering promises to never leave my side. In response, I promised I would write her story.
Her light warmed me and I leaned into her intangible presence. I rested my weary mind on her ephemeral softness and smiled to myself. It seemed as if strangers could see her glow glide softly against my skin, illuminating me the way the moon frames lovers on a lonely lake.
I wrote about her, and she posed for my writings– proud, large, beautiful, soft, and warm.
Then I blinked and, for just one second, the darkness behind my eyes– the darkness inside me– sang a lullaby that wove me into a sticky web.
I was captured.
Just one second became two minutes, and just two minutes became 438 days. And so it was that it took 630,720 seconds to break free and open my tired eyes.
She was still there– a shimmering orb in the peripheral of my perception– and I was not surprised to find her waiting.
Even when caught in a web of my own shadows, I could see her patient incandescence from the other side of my lids– reflecting the colors and shapes of hope on the black canvas of my darkness.
I worry that if I blink too slowly, I might lose her again.
So I focus. Every day.
I ignore the haunting hums, calling me back to my dark.
I open my eyes wide, pick up my pen and write her story–
keeping the promise I made to her,
just as she kept the promise she made to me.
When you want to be happy, what do you focus on?