She makes me uncomfortable.

There is no smile in Judy Garland's eyes. Ever. She twirls and sings and her mouth makes the loveliest smile. But never ever does it touch her eyes. They are cold. Did you ever hear of anything so strange as cold brown eyes? She is a legend, an icon. Everything she does is perfect. But there is no joy in it. The whole world at her feet, but no joy. How dreadful!

The Unalienable Dangers of Nostalgia

Childhood is treasure beyond words. I have not left it, nor will I ever. There was a time, however, when I was a little child; no other distinction will I make between then and now. Being a little child was, indeed, preferable to being the child I am now in many ways. There is only one thing that, given the chance, I would go back and reclaim. My joy. When I was much smaller than I am now, I was in possession of joy unfathomable. My smile was light and glory and no one saw it without being overtaken by the infection of it. I was a laugher and a dancer. I was unconsciously happy; I smiled without knowing what I was doing. Years passed and slowly, very slowly, my joy faded. There was panic the first time I realized it was missing; I got it back. There was a little less panic the second time, for the feeling of being without it was familiar; I got it back again. Again, it faded. The most treacherous of the Unalienable Dangers of Nostalgia is its habit of flinging the foolishly nostalgic person into a depression, deep and inescapable. But one of the lesser Dangers is the one that has I have naively fallen into today; the determination to set upon a journey back to reclaim what was once and is always rightfully mine.

Dear Friend,

I write to you now because I have secrets. "Secrets?" you respond, "everyone has secrets. What makes yours any different?" I answer you with a slight smile touching only one corner of my mouth, My secrets are different because I have someone who wants to know my every thought and every secret. "You're in love!" you exclaim with the appropriate enthusiasm. Yes, I am in love. Blessedly, hopelessly in love. But though you would imagine (I gather from your confused expression) that my love would be the safest place in the world for my secrets, you are wrong. Though I trust my love entirely I cannot tell him my every thought. You see, love requires you to protect your beloved, and though I have no terrible secret, no skeleton in my closet, his tender heart would be hurt by some of my thoughts, especially the ones that regard him. "Absolute honesty" is a fantasy. The predicament created by love leaves me unable to share my thoughts with my love but my nature renders me incapable of living with them floating around in my head. So I turn to you, dear friend, for release. "Ah," your smile is knowing now and you nod your head in assent. Thank you, you have no idea how important you will be to me in the coming days.