An old poem rings through my head, in a voice not my own. An old man trods slowly through the words, and I smell a faint sense of incense...
Then I look around my surroundings, feeling melancholy. The old man is not here, and once out of my daze I only smell the vinegar I got done cleaning the sink with.
Yes, it was like that. Yesterday I was happy, and today I am not.
Nothing phenomenal happened; just the wear and tear of a life filled with often difficult circumstances, often not of my own making. I weather it well, and mostly am happy, but once and awhile...
I just cave. I give in. I sit in my chair, and I say little. The chore I did the day before repeated today seems tedious, annoying. I let my mood fade with the sun, watching it go down once again.
I ponder the friends that are gone, and the places I'll never see. The simple pleasures that are but a memory now, and the excitement of youth is gone. The weekly meetings where the poem was read which were so monumental in shaping who I became as an adult have faded into the past. I feel disconnected; alone.
But as surely as the sun is guaranteed to set, the moon is set to rise. Cycles, cycles are what life consists of. In the light of the night's sky, I ponder more. I think of the nations that will rise, and those that will fall. The riches that will be had, and those that will be lost. The child I help on the stairs today will likely return the favor in only a few decade's time. Cycles, cycles, all is impermanent...
As is this. The light of the moon will fade into the night, bringing dawn behind it. The sun will shine again. And the melancholy will drop, and it will be as if it never was, for a glad heart is often forgetful of these things.
(Quotes from It Was Like This: You Were Happy by Jane Hirshfield)