Dear Hope Nation,
It’s Sunday and, although the days slip one into another in these days, it’s still Sunday. For some of us, that means a time of worship, prayer and reflection. For some of us, a day of rest. For some, a day of football. For me? Sunday is a day for stories.
The following excerpt from a much longer work requires little introduction. All you need to know is Clayton Clevinger is the first-person narrator and Shiny is a boy he’s just met (who will go on to become his only and, therefore, best friend. Enjoy or not as the mood suits you. After all, it’s Sunday.
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“Butyousaidshewasmad,” Isaid.
“Yes, Idid. You’requiterightabout that. She is mad, but not aboutanything. She is mad in the old sense of the word. She suffers from a rare form of mental illness that causes her to be happy all the time. Imagine the pain of being always happy, no matter what. You can watch the news and see a hurricane batter some little town, and all you think is, ‘I’llbettheycanrebuildthatevennicerthanbefore’ or‘Well, atleastnowtheRedCrosswillhaveachancetodotheirbest.’ Ifyouloseyourleg, youthink, ‘Well, atleastI’vegot one good leg. Some people don’thavethat.’ It’shorriblebeingsohappy, asI’msureyoucanimagine.”
“Iguess,”Isaid.
“WhenIthinkofthefunI’vehadbeingangryatpeopleorbeingdisappointedbysituationsorjustcursinglifeingeneral,andknow Aunt Margaret never knows the pleasures of anger, it makes me so sad inside. And then when I’menjoyingbeingsadandsorryformyself,Igetangrymypoorauntneverevergetstocurlupinablanketofsorrowandthrowherselfagoodoldfashionedpity party. It’sjustawful,really.
“Likehalitosisorintestinaldistress,”hecontinued, “herillnessisinmanywaysharderonthosearoundherthanonmyaunt. Seeingthatpoorthingbesohappy,dayafterday,justbreaksmyheart. She’sbeentopsychiatrists and psychologists and phrenologists and even a paleontologist, but there’snothingthatcanbedone.
“Whiletherestofuscan enjoy a broad pallet of emotions–anger, fear, sorrow–poor Aunt Margaret is stuck with cheerful, heedless, lighthearted and content. Imagine if the only emotional forecast you had was chipper today, chirpy tomorrow with a one hundred percent chance of can’tcomplainfortheweekend.
“Mygrandparentsaredead,”Shinycontinued, “sopoorAuntMargarethaswhat’scalledan ‘orphandisease.’ Thebigdrugcompaniesarewillingtospendmillionsofdollarsonantidepressants,butnotonepennyondepressants,whichiswhatthepoorwomandesperatelyneeds.
“Thedoctorshavetriedeverythingfromdailyscreeningsofwaratrocities to listening to sad music to oral readings about good love gone bad, but there’snothingtobedone.
“And,ofcourse,there’salsothepronoia,whichwoulddriveanyonecrazy.”
“Pronoia?”saidI. “Idon’tthinkIknowwhatthatis.”
“Notmanypeople do,”repliedShiny. “Andtheyshouldbethankfulaboutthat. IwishI’dneverhadtohearofit.
“You’veprobablyheardofitsopposite, ‘paranoia,’whichisperfectlyhealthy. Inaworldlikeours,itjustmakessensetowatchyourbackandassumethat people are out to get you. Instead of fearing that everyone wants to hurt her, though, Aunt Margaret lives with a sneaking suspicion people are working together in a secret conspiracy to make her happy. Aunt Margaret, if I let her, would hug everyone she meets and thank them for their hard work. The authorities would have to lock her up.
“Thinkofit,Clayton—thatwasyourname,wasn’tit? —Clayton? Youprobablyknowfrommathclassthatwhenyoumultiplytwonegativenumberstogetheryougetapositive number. What they don’ttellyouisthatwhenthepositivesstartmultiplying,astheyhaveforAuntMargaret,it’saverynegativesituationforeveryone.”
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I suppose there’s a germ of an idea there that’s worth exploring. After all, whatwouldlife be like with no negative feelings and a tingling sensation of conspiracy to make you happy? Worth exploring, but not today. It’s Sunday.
You matter. I matter. We matter.
Keith