It is not happiness. Not a sudden, sharp joy. It is a hum. A low, constant pulse. It lives in the quiet moments between things. In the space before the car arrives. In the slow burn before the sun rises. It is the most frequent of the good feelings. A future.
The coffee cup is warm in my hands. The day has not started. It will be a good day. It is not a fact. It is a feeling. A good ache in the chest. A promise made to myself.
I sit and watch the river. The water moves. It does not stop. It goes toward something. The sea. It knows what is ahead. I do not. But the feeling is the same. A steady pull. The certainty of a future. It is not the future itself that is good. It is the knowing that there will be one. Small things.
The letter is on the table. It has a stamp. A foreign stamp. I do not open it. Not yet. The feeling is in the sealed envelope. The weight of it. The hope. The news inside? May be good or bad. But the moment before is all good. It is all potential. The best part of a thing is not the thing itself, but the waiting for it. The possibility.
I remember this feeling. It is always the same. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the music to begin. Waiting for a book to be finished. The final page is a destination, but the reading, the journey, is the true pleasure. The mind moves ahead, a little, always a little. Imagining. Hoping.
This feeling is the motor of life. The quiet, constant hope. It is a baseline. It is the sure knowledge that something is coming. And the coming is a good thing. The coming is the best part. This is the feeling.
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