Bliss

Ephemeral and evasive, like a spirit of light fading into the mist of a stormy night, flaunting it's shining beauty, yet staying out of reach. Never to be fully tamed or captured.

It would sometimes come back like an old friend, all warm and fuzzy, familiar and comfortable. A sense that no time at all had passed settling in. And then, it was nowhere to be seen.

Seeking it, searching for it, scrambling to recreate a moment to evoke it again. Most times it seemed a worthless effort, a bastardization of a time passed.

There was no formula, seemingly inconsistent and impossible to fabricate. Lies sometimes worked as a temporary aid, but ultimately, facades are just that.

Then came the blue, looming figure of storm resemblance. Insufferable and nothing like that warmth, it veiled the world to make it all seem more grey, more dull. An asphyxiation noticeable enough to be upsetting, but most of the time barely more than an annoying inconvenience.

The indulgence in distraction did little to set it back, and much less to bring back the brightness. A pointless routine yielding pointless results. A wide and spacious prison, but a confinement nonetheless.

And yet, through the cracks of that unsightly interior, the warmth seeped in stubbornly, scarce and slightly dim, but present all the same. Its limitation, its restraint, only made each strand of light seem to shine all the brighter, like a diamond in the rough, a hidden gem.

Peering beyond the darkened veil of gray and dullness, there hid its form, indescribable and incomprehensible. A beacon of light amidst a rocky and treacherous shore. A guiding guardian who watched and admired, as it was admired back. A stay that could never be permanent or manufactured, lest it loose its significance, lest it becomes replaceable.

But even with the knowledge of its eventual departure, of its temporal state, one couldn't help but cling, to hope against hope to stay in its embrace forever, to bask in its light and be filled by it, consumed, to shine just as bright. Foolish and naive as it was, a weary heart longs for rest, for comfort, a romance of fantasy to rejoice in for eternity. But the heart would only grow to hate it, just as it does with any repetitions.

And so the light lifted, and its presence dimmed once more. Yet it never truly left, only decreased in intensity. And beyond feeling disappointment, it brought relief, as it gave time to cherish the memory of its warmth, and await its next appearance. And as it left, one would perhaps smile fondly, and through the veil, it could be almost perceived to be smiling right back.

For happiness is a beautiful illusion we only indulge ourselves in at the moment, and to try to control it and bend it to one's will for the intent of reproducing it, is nothing but purely inhumane. And yet, yearning for that might be the most human thing of all.