Happy.

For the first time since Babser, I cried.

It wasn’t a deluge of tears drenching the face and hands. Just two brief instances, both within a few hours of each other, where a handful of drops squeaked out, each clawing their way down the cheek. A mighty struggle they exerted, desperate to return home. Calling out to their master, they begged for mercy. No response.

No eyes, shelter gone. No mouth or nose, breathing involuntary. No ears, only The Ocean. No skin, barriers broken. Vessel.

I didn’t even notice what was going on either time until each was essentially over, and that may have been the most healing part of all.

Since around September, I have been aiming, among many other goals, to turn off my brain more. Not only does it appear to cause much of my unhappiness, but it often just gets in the way. There is little pleasure to be had when analysis overrides action. Thus, any time I am able to strip away thought and just live: yes, please.

Sure, I needed the catharsis of crying. But an unmitigated feeling, devoid of intellectual influence, might have been something I needed even more.

It is only through the putting aside of questions, an act by which I used to define myself by, that I was free. I was free to be me.

The brain can turn a joyous feeling like “I’m so lucky! I can’t believe it!” into a depressing thought like “I don’t deserve any of this. I’m an asshole.”

There is a catch, though. Power cannot be created; it can only be granted. If I do not want my thoughts to control me, then I do not let them.

Questions are part of what give life zest, some would say meaning. But when one eschews all else in the pursuit of answers, a loss is gained.

I do not know what allowed me to cry on a seemingly random Easter Sunday and not on the many other occasions recently where I felt terrible because I could not, and I will never know. This is not to say my quest to find out is futile. I will just prevent it from consuming me.

Especially now, at a time when I might be the happiest I have ever been, I want to continue feeling. Casting out all thought is not an option; 17-year-old Alec would kill me. But questioning whether it is right or makes sense to feel what I feel is not an option either.

So, until I figure out what I am doing, although I know I never will and hope I never do, I shall reserve the unfiltered feelings for life and the restrictive thoughts for “Jeopardy!”

Because I’m tired of not being me.