Failing Moments of Joy

You have all heard of fleeting moments of joy. Today I will talk to you about failing moments of Joy. Moments when you pump yourself up, brace for impact, and get ready to feel Joy, but fail. Moments when you plug the cord of your heart into a long-awaited experience, but find no spark.

You flail around the room, tangled in the cord of your own expectations, desperate to find your heart in what you have had your eyes on for so long, trying to stick that frayed plug into new conversations, jokes, and squeaks of laughter, but find no signal.

You wonder why. You spend weeks, months, even years yearning for an experience, and when it finally happens, it feels like nothing. A vast, hollow nothing born from a long beautiful everything.

Maybe you cannot plant Joy. Maybe Joy, just like me, is a master of its own whims. Joy arrives when it wants to. Maybe Joy has social anxiety too.

Maybe Joy arrives at my doorstep and sees a thrown set up in its honour, sloppily engraved “Reserved for Joy”. A gaudy golden banner on top proclaiming, "In Celebration of the Homecoming of Joy!" Maybe Joy takes a sneak peek through the window, shits its pants, cringes at the attention and scurries back to its car. Joy leans back in its car, chugs a big shot from its tiny bottle of emergency vibe-not-giving tequila and sighs “Well, that was a bit much, eh..”

Maybe Joy starts driving, wondering again, why people always have to be so desperate for it. Maybe, it’s a joy problem. Maybe Joy should do a vibe check before RSVPing to an event again. The least Joy could do is get the fashion memo right.

Maybe Joy finishes its tiny bottle of tequila, and just as it taps on the steering wheel, belting out the chorus of Dancing Queen by ABBA, Joy realizes it's drunk. Joy is relaxed, at ease, intrepid, and gutsy now. Hell, Joy feels like a party—maybe even the one it just escaped.

Sharp u-turn, tyres screeching on the road for dramatic effect, like a brown boy on high T. Joy lets out a stupid giggle. Joy is ready. Joy pulls over, and looks up at the building you call your home. “Let’s do this!”

Joy breathes into its palms, adjusts its tie, and plucks a rose from a pot outside a second-floor apartment as it climbs up to your door with steady steps. Joy rings the bell. There is no answer. It is five in the morning and the sun is barely up. Joy smells a putrid stench. It seems like Grief visited when Joy was away.

Grief, that bitch. Always hiding itself under every couch Joy occupies. That uninvited plus-one that sneaks out from one person’s cupboard into another’s last drink, every Saturday. But tonight, Grief is out. And for what? For a party thrown for Joy!

Joy plunges itself in through the window. It’s tiny enough to find its way through the cracks. Grief is a giant. It takes up a lot of space. But tonight, it’s cut in neat slices, portioned into different sizes, still clinging to the leftovers.

Joy walks up to the only room faintly lit up and peeks inside. Nothing makes a better space for Joy than Grief out of hiding, split up small. Joy glances at the throne "Reserved for Joy," now tattered by the heels of inebriation.

Joy smiles, drops its tie on the floor and climbs up into bed. Joy sleeps a sound sleep, nestled between the Grief shared between you and me.