There it is. That little pang. It exhilarates me. It terrifies me. What is it? Anticipation? Excitement? Contentment? “Good grief,” I ask myself, “is that happiness?” But far from feeling, well, “happy” about the prospect of feeling “happy,” I feel uncomfortable, I feel guarded. “It won’t last,” I think to myself. “ “Good things are always followed by bad.” “Perhaps I should just avoid it, and save myself the inevitable disappointment when things go downhill.” “No thank you, I think I’ll just go over here and wrap myself back up in my cozy blanket of melancholia.” And so back to the deceitful “safety” of emotional languor I go, at once both perfectly able to rationalize how foolish my thought pattern is, whilst simultaneously finding the
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