Ringing Chimes

When you're downcast, and when you're crestfallen, don't look outside. Don't see the sun be the sun; it lowers into the trees and it boils down to the night. Think of the happiest things. Take a walk through the park, and see the people who sweat and breathe in the afternoon haze. See the hammers break the bricks down into miniature people and trains. And when the day kisses goodbye and the night is now a hue you try to digest, think of the quiet morning when you are all garbed in blank pages. The morning can be sweet. The morning can be a toothache.

Waking up, think of the happiest things. Rejuvenate yourself with dreams of bright flowers and lemon juice. Daydreams would be great, too. In the business of woolgathering, you better watch your hands. In the morning you yawn and everything is bleary, from the stretching of your limbs to the dawning of the sun. And it is now familiar—I know—the sadness that indents itself on your mind. It likes to stay awhile. But it will pass, like the day will. Your breaths may feel like they try to smother you every day. The day may feel inhuman. The world may feel bland. But these things shall pass, like your cough will. You'll escape the immorality of superficially happy walls. You'll find things worthy and terrifically nice. You'll find yourself feeling worthy and terrific and nice. There is light that can triumph the dark. It is the clipped secret of an eskimo kiss, but it is the most heart-warming and touching. And promising.

Don't you get it?