I am of the nature to scurry and spin into a crisis of meaning at least every 3 to 4 months of my 26 (soon to be 27) year-old existence: no matter the weather, the stability of the job, the clearness of skin, the bareness (or sometimes reverse) of the kitchen fridge, nor the levels of sunshine and happiness i might have experienced in months prior.
This state of emotional and intellectual scurry for the Right to Legitimately Breathe is what my 3rd year, Lit. degree readings called an Existential Crisis.
I have my very own couch in its lobby
My previous month’s Sunshine (in which i was comfortably and happily basking, thank you very much) involved a number of accomplishments that had me thinking i might have graduated from this spot (fly little bird, you are freeeee!):
I have (somewhat) learned to play the bass guitar (apparently quite a sexy accomplishment as i am a female, wink, wink); i completed my first painting since high school days (and danced a little jig); i am involved with social development (brrrrownie points); and I have fairly gotten over having my heart trodden on and indifferently discarded by previous BoyFriend (relief).
It is precisely at this point that the the elevator I am in jolts once or twice, and then begins its ponderous freefall down to earth. The little, round, buttons (numbered 1 to infinity) all flash alarmingly, my travelling companions sympathetically teleport themselves out and away, and those blimmen elevator doors ‘ping’ open to Ground Zero, and there i am again:
the girl standing with a soggy ice-cream cone in her hand and newly-chosen, briefly-licked, pure Heaven in a blob on the floor at her feet.