Today I experienced a few moments of happiness.
I stumbled out of my vehicle in a state of intoxication.
I looked up an saw the moon.
The moon was pretty. Surrounded by the fog and clouds. I decided to give it a soul. I imagined the moon watching from above as a helpless observer of all the foibles of our species. The wars, the triumphs, the famines, the apologies; the moon watching from above the sad, beautiful and dull mass of humanity convulsing and bleeding in its incoherent melody.
I lay on the wet grass in the back of my apartment building watching the moon. I could feel the moisture moving up the layers of cotton garments covering my body until the water made contact with my Slavic skin.
I though about a girl I loved in Seattle. I am 27, but I never experienced requited love. I was and (to a degree) still am in love with a person who feels little if anything for me. In the context of my life, love is a pathetic longing. A melancholic parasite that brings no happiness, an emotion I wish I never known. The love I know is something I hate.
I wanted to share the moon and my happiness with this girl.
But I didn't want to send an email that would be ignored, nor did I want to deal with the response if it (miraculously) materialized.
So I wrote a draft email as I often do when I want to talk to her. When my rational mind blocks my sad and needy desire to make another attempt at an emotional connection. My draft folder in my gmail account has a few of these sad testaments.
This one read, "The biggest curse in my life is only seeing beauty in you."
Melodramatic but sincere. The sincerity of a drunk man laying on wet grass near his apartment door, watching the moon.