So I got home after a long day and found myself slap bang in the middle of a bad mood. I’m not entirely sure why I was in a bad mood; I just was. Claudia sensing it, asked me ‘What’s wrong?’. ‘Nothing.’ I replied, because to be in a bad mood for no apparent reason seemed unfathomable. There has to be a reason. There’s a reason for everything right? Analysis is everywhere. My friends no longer use social networks to post amusing pictures of their pets. They now pepper my news feed with small Twitter sized pieces of philosophy, social commentary and unqualified analysis.
She dates guys that are completely wrong for her. She has daddy issues.
He drives a sports car.. He’s compensating for his small…demeanour.
In a dream, he sees himself eating a burger and washing it down with a glass of vintage Champagne. He is clearly suffering from an identity crisis, anchored around issues of class.
Everything has an explanation. Nothing is by chance. As such, that which was once obtainable through hard work and some good fortune, must now be achieved via the aid of some psychic, mental reprogramming, positive affirming, speak-the-glaringly-obvious, guru.
‘You are an amazing person. You can achieve anything. You will now pay me £250.’
In bed, I found myself replaying the minutia of my day. The conversations at work, emails received, glances between drivers, searching for the derivation of my gloom. My search returned 0 results. Then just before I fell into a coma like sleep, I concluded that perhaps, just maybe it was a random, unexplainable flat spot, in my otherwise constant good vibrations.
I slept well on a cushion of new realisations and a lifted mood. I let it go, knowing I am not a psychologist. The unexplained never felt so good!