Dear Diary,
Today, I found myself in a curiously good mood the kind that makes no sense at all. It’s midterm season, which means chaos, caffeine, and crushed dreams, yet here I am… smiling. Odd, isn’t it?
Maybe it’s the result of that all-nighter .It’s the brain’s way of rewarding me for torturing it. A sort of “congratulations, you’ve officially lost touch with reality” gift. I can feel that peculiar lightness, that faint buzz of delirium. Almost… intoxicating.
So, I video-called my mom. The moment she saw me, she said, “What’s with that mischievous smile?” I told her, “I’m happy because I’m talking to her.” She laughed. “Liar,” she said. “You talk to me every day.” My mom is a sharp woman she’s always been good at spotting my tells.
Still, she couldn’t quite read this one. Truth is, I couldn’t either. Why was I happy? Was it the comfort of her voice? The satisfaction of pretending everything’s fine? Or just the strange euphoria that comes when you’ve stayed up so long you start to feel like you’ve solved life’s mysteries?
Maybe happiness, like truth, is a trick of perception. A flicker of light in the fog. You don’t question it but you just enjoy it while it lasts.
Yours thoughtfully,