After a long time, I know what it is. I fear my happiness. Today for some unidentifiable reason ( it could be the books or the papaya or the fish) I am elated today. Tonight, to be precise. And I have a lurking apprehension, immediately underlying the layer of happiness. Like a warning, like a sequel.
So I am a self-confessed masochist. Many of my (fond?) memories are of the times when I was at my lowest. Sadness effusing from under a (false?) layer of altruism.
Maybe it is the green red-tongued frog. Yes, maybe it's just that and nothing underlying it. I read one story and stop, because I am enjoying it too much. That's why most of the time I procrastinate, because doing the thing itself might bring me great pleasure, achievement and success, while delaying it will prolong my uneventful condition.
What's a lie? It's not a lie, ever. It's just your version of the truth.
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