Laget av: roberto.c.alfredo i philosophy-corner på
There is a photograph of me from the fall of 2008, standing inside Dorton Arena in Raleigh before a Barack Obama campaign speech.
I was fourteen years old.
I am smiling.
Not the little closed-mouth expression people produce when somebody points a camera at them. Not the strained approximation of happiness that appears when the photographer says, Come on, smile.
I mean actually smiling.
My whole face appears to agree about what it is doing.
I have seen the picture enough times that it has acquired a slightly archaeological quality for me. There is evidence here of an ability I once possessed effortlessly.
Somewhere along the way, smiling became difficult.
If I deliberately try to smile now, the result is usually terrible. One side of my mouth seems to receive different instructions from the other. My eyes do something unrelated. The muscles of my face assemble themselves into an expression that looks less like happiness than an actor attempting to portray happiness after being given insufficient rehearsal time.
It looks fake because it is fake.
This is strange mainly because I do not consider myself an especially unhappy person.
There are plenty of days when I feel good.
I get interested in things. I become absorbed in projects. I enjoy music, ideas, exercise, conversations, walks, discoveries, small accomplishments. I can feel peaceful. I can feel hopeful. I can feel deeply satisfied by something without any particular urge appearing in my face to advertise the fact.