Taste was a curious thing to me, it seemed.

Nothing appealed to my palate— and I wasn't talking about the sweet flavours of candy or savoury tang of salty dishes.

No, I was talking about the tastes of the varied, unique emotions I had experienced in my life.

Firstly— sadness. It was a strange emotion, an alien taste, and I had first felt it when my father had passed away in an accident, rich with bitterness and salty tears.

It wasn't even his fault. The other driver was drunk, and my father just so happened to be the unfortunate victim across him.

Internal pain. A disease. A disorder. These were just three of the things sadness had taken the form of. Things loved most were thrown aside, trashed from the mind. Memories covered and caked with evil, darkness, and grief. Sorrow was the new smile in my eye. Tears had replaced the sunshine. And life had been dark, for what seemed to be forever.

Secondly— anger. It was most certainly unwelcome to me, with angered shouts, blood boiling as our voices got louder and louder, seeming to fill up the empty vessels of stretching hallways.

"Do you know what you've done?"

"I've merely been a good friend."

"My father's going to kill me. It was the final question. He wanted me to get into the Gifted Education Program no matter what."

"Still, you shouldn't have resorted to cheating!"

"You ruined my life!"

I remember as my lip curled nastily, and my best friend's gaze darkened as her first curled, abruptly spinning on her heel and disappearing down the corridor.

I'd never talked to her again since.

The taste was electric, lighting my senses up with spicy fury, anger clouding my once clear judgement— and later left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

Regret was perhaps the most heartrending one of them all.

I was too focused on work, I hadn't noticed the declining mental state of my brother, the brother I lived with— as job after job turned him down— all I gave him were snippy remarks and degrading insults.

In my heart I retract all the bad things I ever said, they were never a reflection on him, only on my inner demons. You worked hard and I only saw what you could not do.

In my misplaced entitlement I gave you only passive-aggressive rage, I withdrew to punish you and became self-absorbed.

Now he's gone, fled to my sister who gives him hugs instead of cold stares, acceptance and not demands, respect and never condemnation. I can never hope to win him back and I don't deserve him, but every day I pray that she treats him well, that he knows all the happiness I never gave, that he makes back those wasted years we shared.

There was nothing spicy or bitter about this— it was merely a lingering sour taste.

But still, even if these moments had clipped my wings and threatened to sent me crashing down, they hadn't broken my wings yet. These wings could still grow back, full and majestic, with time to heal their cracks and wounds.

Tiny moments of happiness— brief moments of elation; bursts of light that peeked through the storm healed me, and I guess that these up and downs are what make up life.

It's the sugary sweet taste that these joyful moments that makes life truly worth living.

Word Count: 574