It comes every now and then, this threat of happiness and I don’t care to trust it. There’s a conspiracy hatched by god, his angels, zeus, sandman, and whoever else is fucking in charge to keep me from it. They dangle happiness like a mexican piñata and like a toddler I fall for it, believing that if I hit the donkey…
Only it never happens. The piñata swings the other way and there is the swoosh of my bat slicing through air.
Last night I dreamt I was forced to leave Thailand and had to relocate somewhere where they don’t wrap fabric around trees believed to be inhabited by spirits. I woke relieved to find myself in my flat in Sathorn and that nothing had in fact changed. As I strolled to my favourite cafe this morning, I smiled at everyone. You’re allowed to smile in Bangkok, and people smile back. I pampered myself with granola with organic yogurt and two cups of cappuccino. Wrote for four hours and afterwards painted my nails black.
Yes it’s looking like a good life and it frightens me writing about this imminent happiness. I don’t want to say that it’s coming, that it’s here. They might find out that I sucker punched the piñata and then I’m fucked. But I need to make note of it, scrawl it on the back of an envelope– or on this blog– so I remember that this is real, that I felt it, that I’m not a writer writing fiction, but a writer writing about her small life.