All Joy is Meaningless, Unless

You've been too happy, haven't you? And so dangerously quiet, too. You haven't told me anything in a while. You've taken those bits of joy for granted, the ones you used to say you snatched. You have the love of your life, blessed with two beautiful children, family, friends who don't need you and you don't need. You even landed the job you figured out what you wanted, working from home, ridding yourself of that corporate toxicity (the residues of which continue to haunt you until now). You have time to squander on books, signed-up for Spotify Premium and Netflix.You have a folder that goes "Eiga Sai," as you haven't the opportunity to watch film festivals, you managed to bundle up everything in a folder and have your own festival. You've even travelled a little. You bike and run (never often enough) and that old treadmill still works.  Technically, you can have a drink any time of day.

It isn't much, you say, until your guts spoke up. You defecated and threw up so much the past couple of days that it felt like a catharsis. You were pained, but you were proud to have endured. After the physical and emotional clarity, you say, I'm happy now, and I should only be able to share this joy.

You've always thought this story will end soon. Endure, dear you, in case there's a long way to go.