I can’t quite say that I am always happy where I am. Today there were tears of joy and now all that I feel is an overwhelming emotion of grief. For what do I mourn? I wouldn’t be able to answer my own questions.

I thought of gardening and I recall euphoria at obtaining the necessary materials—perfect seeds, a durable pot. It was only until I was picking up the soil from the yard with a spoon that I realized I was disgusted. I saw a worm and jumped back in horror. The soil was sticky and mushy at the same time. Yet I kept at it, hoping to grow some beautiful portulacas.

I often don’t think of the details, those gory, sick ones. There’s too much focus on the idea of what will happen. In our excitement, we skip some necessary steps. Today I thought I’d be happy, goodness knows that I was merely hours ago, but something inside me changed. I don’t want to smile; I don’t want to feel this pressing on my chest that is bringing me such discomfort.

I’d like to say that I want to stretch wide like the branches of a tree, but now that I consciously make myself think of the details, I know that those branches are often destroyed in the storm. Lightning might strike or the wind might use such great force that the branch will fall—like a limb that gets detached from the body, I do not want to be.

I won’t say that I feel happy because nothing is secure. There’s too much frailty on my horizon to open up completely again. My apologies.