There were good times, too, in my madness. Things that brought me joy for brief flashes — I must admit there were those instances. More than once, I had visions of Heaven; they were sometimes scant, like a look through a small hole in the ceiling of my mind, but the light that shone in — how splendid it was. There were poignant moments, too, if I remember correctly, but I don't think many or even any of them make any sense out of the context of what was going on in my madness at the time. The same, I think, goes for humor: if I were to tell you the joke, there would be no way you would get it, unless I were to explain to you just about everything that was happening and happened up to that point. But like I say, it wasn't all pain and horror — though there was plenty of that.
If I think back, I can recall that strange things made me happy. Once, I bought a pen, and I was happy for the rest of the day just because I had it. It was like the most bizarre second childhood I could think of. (My maturity level was certainly on par with a child's, in any case.) If you rule out the drugs, which really didn't make me happy — just numbed everything so I thought I was happy — there were in the simple things, too, the little joys that keep you keeping on: a gentle breeze in a summer evening, a sip of water when I was thirsty, a moment of quiet after a hard day. Aside from those simple things, my take on happiness back when I have trouble understanding, these days. I was a different person....
I think, now, I will try to remember the me I used to be. It will be like remembering someone who has moved very far away, and will not return. And I will try to understand what was behind that smile, for the trace seconds when he did smile — and I believe I will smile back, even though he will never see me, or know that I think of him.
