I am so happy. SO happy right now with my life. Even though not everything is perfect, even though life is expensive, even though bad things happen to good people, I am happy. Which says a lot after so many years of being unhappy.
But sometimes I think I almost miss being unhappy, writing dreadful stories and gut-wrenching poetry about my feelings. Being unhappy drove me. Sadness and anger were excellent motivators. Now I'm content to let things just... be. It's weird. It's almost like I've lost my identity. Without sadness, I have no personality (or so I occasionally think). Who am I without a scornful lover, a self-righteous panel of hipster judges, a fascist authority figure? What will I talk about, think about, cry about without them? I don't cry much anymore, yet that's a good thing for me.
I am not angry with anyone or anything. I am not sad about life. I don't blame anyone for anything, not even myself. Well, sometimes I blame stuff on the cat. But only if she really did it.
I am smiling. I am pleasant to be around. I am even - dare I say it? - fun. I am in love. I am living in the world's most perfect place for me. I am rich. I am productive. I am stable. I am happy.
Is this what it feels like to be normal?