For the last twenty-four hours or so, I've been feeling, for want of a better way to put it, actively happy. Contentment is good. Heck, I'd even call it great. This, however, is different. It's the sort of happy which propels one forward, a sort of happy which radiates off you like some sort of human analog of Hawking radiation, apparently creating something out of nothing. It's very much the sort of happy which makes you look forward to the rest of your life and wish you could tack on a bit more at the end if it isn't too much bother.
I'm in a good mood.
I'm in a good mood and I can't think of any, single proximate cause. It's certainly not work, which, at its best, is something that doesn't occupy too much of my brainspace. My health hasn't magically improved; I may have suffered a little setback in that regard. I just feel ridiculously positive about where I am and what the future may look like, assuming my augury tools are properly calibrated.
Novelist Matt Haig turned forty on Twitter this week and did the a little of the traditional fretting about it (in fun, I suspect.) I got to thinking about my turning that same age a while back and how remarkably good my forties have been to me. They've easily been the best decade, a fact which surprises me a little. Not that I would have listened, but I don't remember anyone telling me that things got better as one got older.
I wonder if it's to do with mental health I feel like my brain is working very well right now and that I'm equipped to deal with most of what gets tossed my way. You get some chicken-and-egg problems trying to analyze your own happiness, especially when you're speculating about how your own mental well-being is affecting said happiness, so I'll just leave it at that.
Mind feels clear and sharp. Love my current vector. Love my not-quite-wife-but-we're-going-to-rectify-that. Love the people around me. Love the people who aren't nearby, but I know are there anyway. Life is good. I'll try to enjoy it without clutching.