There is a certain comfort in a theory. Two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen form a molecule of water. The quark is the smallest known indivisible particle of matter. Light is both a particle and a wave. Neat and simple. Frank and terse.
One nondescript night, I go out to meet college friends after work. There is a certain comfort as well in catching up with college friends. People from your high school almost always require loyalty and nostalgic longing for the, err, “good old times.” Luckily, college friends almost always never care.
My friends, Edmund and Tenzing, announce that they have formulated a theory about why Christmas is such a season of depression for some people.
Their theory claims there is a finite amount of happiness at a given space and time. This limited amount, they say, is up for grabs for anyone. Unfortunately, some people are beasts and they consume more than their share and leave only the dregs for the rest of the population.
This massive and frantic consumption of happiness allegedly peaks during Christmastime, which starts as early as September. By the end of the year, there would be a scarcity of happiness to go around, and one is forced to be content with what is left.
Luckily or unluckily, the theory explains, what is usually produced, then massively and selfishly consumed with such abandon, would be the superficial type of happiness. What would often be left is the, err, profoundest type. Which is so profound that it has come full circle along the mood spectrum and has ended up back on the sadness end.
At around 10 PM, we say good-bye, part ways, and vow not to meet very soon. Then I decide I need a drink and meet a few blogger friends for a nightcap. There is also a certain comfort in liquor. Of an altogether different sort.
*Photo is from one of the best romances translated into film, Before Sunset. Incidentally, the movie is so romantic that it sucks all romanticism out of you more efficiently than any expensive vacuum cleaner.