I have been away on holiday, walked along this beach, visited precious friends, enjoyed my children, and forgotten about work… But for once, coming back may have been the best part of the holiday. Being able to bury myself into Mr Nice, and count the yellow flecks in his eyes on Sunday made me realise how much I had missed him.
I am still working through a lifetime of anxiety. And problems with children, exes, life (that sort of small fry) occasionally threaten to burst our little bubble, but overall, I think it’s official: I am ridiculously happy.
Happy to the point that it is sort of weird to read old posts from a year ago, and I find it hard to remember what pain felt like. Don’t get me wrong, I am still angry with T, but in a diffuse I-can’t-really-be-bothered sort of way.
Happy to the point of smiling at the sky, of forgetting about climate change and my rude colleague, of smothering my children in kisses. Happy to the point of thinking that regardless of the past, the future may be full of promises.
Thanks to Scriptor Obscura for introducing me to Nils Frahm – Kind, which curiously reminds me of how fragile happiness is, and how much I should cherish it.