Preserving joy

I'm not big on photographs, Reader. But as you might have noticed, what I am big on, is words.
I've done this once before and I'm going to do it again. My days have been full of moments, when I feel a sharp stab of joy, for an instant, and then it fades and I'm left empty. But very soon after, I can't even remember what I felt joyful about, and I feel a sort of sadness, for what I can't remember.
Not today, Reader.

My day began early, at 5 am, actually when I woke up a very sleepy pup. He didn't want to get up and instead lazily licked my hand and rolled over onto his back.

Then we went out in that eerie glow that is the light of the morning and the air was crisp and cool. We were alone on the road, everyone else asleep.


I remember the precise moment of dawn, when suddenly the dim light turned into a glorious radiance, that I would've missed if I had as much as blinked.

There was Panda stalking through foot-high grass, it must've seemed elephantine to him. With a tread like an explorer, he set a panicky field of moths aflight, as he walked.

There was the smell of the sambar I made for breakfast, a heady mix of spice, boiling merrily on the stove.

There were more, Reader, but I can't tell you just now, I need to be going, as the impatient pup tugging on my arm tells me. But I'm glad I could tell you of my moments, at least of a few. If there was a way of bottling happiness and preserving it for the future, this would be it.