Lately, I have been feeling a displaced sense of unhappiness. Displaced because I cannot quite trace this stem of feeling back to any particular root, but I just know that it is there, planted and firm and worryingly tenacious.
And sometimes on days darker than most, when the heavy heat just reminds me of how I was infinitely lighter walking down Russell St in Melbourne, when work can be picking on the fraying edges of my temper, when the bathroom light casts an unflattering pallor on my complexion (or so I would like to accredit the sallowness to), the unhappiness grows and clutches and becomes almost desperate.
Almost desperate for what, I don’t know exactly, but to frame it metaphorically, it almost feels like a trapped fluttering bird against my ribs, and its wings are incessantly, incessantly beating, each soft whoosh more panicked than the previous. But I trap it still, because I am more afraid to know what may happen if I release this unhappiness, if I do anything about it, and the path that it may lead me down, and while it may be a path for the better, it seems paved with tremendously difficult honesty (to myself most of all), and a very hefty amount of bravery.
I am just not sure if I am brave enough.