'Tis like the sun and the moon, both at once. Some days, indescribably happy. The time in the square when I dropped my billfold and the old woman with the beige coat followed me, panting, short legs furiously pedaling the ground, just to return it, and in her eyes you could see she felt such a virtuous satisfaction and it nearly brought a tear to my eye. 'Twas a fleeting moment that encapsulated a lifetime of happiness, a moment never to be replicated again for me, this I know. Even if I won at Epsom, won enough to buy Martha that necklace and move out into the country, that's a different, material happiness. I've known true happiness, if but for an instant.
Other days feel like the world is suffocating me from the moment I wake. Cloudy, foggy days, usually. All of winter, nearly. There is no love in winter, no amicable sunny embraces, just icy rejections, cold air mocking you every step, racing to the tram holding your overcoat shut. Perhaps around the time Mum died--absolute worst then. Every year a constant reminder---suppose it's for the better, I mustn't forget her and the way she'd fix me tea and bring me books when I was ill. It hurts to remember, though---gives me that dry, empty feeling in the back of my throat, realizing that I'm on my own. Feels like I'm shut out of the house sometimes---almost makes me angry at them, departing so early. Irrational, of course, but I can't help that.