When We Were Happy

When I look back on those times, I weep. On my cheek roll the tears, not tears of bliss, not tears of woe – but tears of change. Oh, how things have changed since then – since those brilliant days, those summer nights.

In this insignificant and ephemeral period of time, the fire has died. But why?

Things change, I assure myself. The fire can’t blaze perpetually. Those diamond days and nights were fine times, but all sunny things must cease in time.

Why should they? I solicit unto the ubiquitous ghost of myself – because if everything good endured a lifetime; if the sun never sank into the vague golden-silhouette horizon: we would simply be in nirvana. Not a planet named Earth, riddled with hell, but in heaven.

The tears are reminiscent of the bleak night that I write this. A dark night, soon to evolve feebly into the dreary day. I stand at the opposite extremity of the spectrum now, afar from the whites of delight.

A wistfulness steals over me now as I reflect on those long-departed untroubled times. It is a nostalgia I abhor; yet adore. It brings me to tears; but it furthermore takes me to that scarce and shrouded spot of happiness, in remembering those times... an intricate emotion – my mind too numb to empathize, my hands too shaky to record.


With the melancholy, comes fatigue. With the fatigue, comes sleep. And when I awaken, it’ll all be gone: the nostalgia of contentment, the tears of change... this intricate emotion.

There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy. That’s life.