Happy Hour

by Marlowe Granados

Sometimes I long for anything that might be frivolous. I go between feeling much too young and much too old for my age. I crave nothing serious, but when I pursue it, I am the one to drag a dark cloud overhead. It’s much easier to seem silly and light than to be the sum of your experiences. If only I could exist as perfect lightness, always laughing with my mouth open. I would float through life with ease, believing in my own unserious personality. It takes no effort to convince people you are in fact just that. They start to expect that of you, and nothing more.

I once read that “one does not mourn in public,” and maybe that’s why I prefer to be outside.