Joyful, Joyful

I do not live a joyful life.

Don’t cry for me. This isn’t some sad state I mistakenly slipped into. At some point, I grew tired of dizzying heights followed by catastrophic lows and traded it all for steadiness. I needed a life that worked. That didn’t require much to function on a day-to-day basis.

Low-maintenance.

Dirty words in this “I deserve it all” era, but I’ve never mastered wanting without tallying the cost of my desires. Once I decided I didn’t have “all” to give, I started shopping for a life I could easily afford.

“The world is a rather awful place, love. Best to meet it on its own terms.”

So said Klaus Mikaelson on an episode of The Originals, and for a millennia-old psychopathic vampire-werewolf hybrid on a CW drama the man had a point. An applicable ethos for a girl whose lows pull her under and wring her out.

But, here’s the good thing about this approach:

I so rarely experience joy that when it comes, I never take it for granted.

And right now, stretched on a futon an hour outside of Honolulu, a sunrise over the Pacific and crowing roosters just outside my window…

This is fucking joy.

Published by

a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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