it looks something like satisfaction, i am told. i believe it. it is a “what?” that wells up from inside your chest, burbling out on a gush of laughter. it is a strange story told with a smile on your face, a pleasant sense that something is peculiar but that everything is somehow fine.
often all i can muster is a sort of headachy confusion: that tense feeling you get between your eyes from driving or crying or being in bright sunshine for too long. sometimes you can scrape up a smile for the telling, but it’s the sort that makes your cheeks hurt.
i’m tired of confusion. i’m tired of bemusement, too. i’m tired of being led and misled all the time, whether it makes a good story or not. i think i’d rather just have donuts and fall asleep in the crook of someone’s arm and not have the story to tell.