The only memories you are able to invoke—which are invoked regardless of your intent—are broad and flat and saggy. Your behaviour and your circumstances are recalled, but never the mood. Detached from any actual experience of the time, they are at most re-imagined with the temperament that you bring to them now.
You have certainly been sad, or angry, or engaged emotionally in some other manner, in your personal history, but you lack any direct access to that now. Whatever may have been stored alongside the details of location and people and costume, their physicality and noises, seems an imperfectly copied or implied thing; either not stored at the full flavour of your current conscious experience, or absent entirely.
Here’s one: the same day, slightly later. The thin woman, her face looking slightly upwards, a bubble of noise, yellow sunlight from some window… that can’t be true of course, since the day was otherwise or the anteroom episode makes no sense. It was, factually, the same day; it does not have the insubstance of the unfully recalled or misremembered, although logically you have no reason to believe this makes it any more likely to be factual. It may be not at all, or just as much, or as near as makes no difference.
You wonder if there are different stages or engagements of recollection or if you are capable of different types, each stored in a dedicated subcompartment of your brainpan. Some may be broken or held closed while to others you currently have full access. You can certainly remember the memory of having vividly relived circumstances in the past, been disgusted or terrified as you remembered the crisis associated with them, or the embarrassment, but you cannot invoke such an experience now. You wonder if such memories were ever truly of the mood of the time, or if they too are just the memory of a memory. It is too far gone, you cannot recall.
You can recall the fact of a mood. You know for certain, as certain as you can be, those times in which an event was mood-heavy, in some fashion, and yet it is not the feel of the mood that you recall, just the impacted shape of the contents, the acting and potent contents, of the thing looked at or heard or otherwise experienced while that mood was on you. Maybe those other sets of memory, which may not exist, are those in which mood alone is heavily recalled or revisited, based on some non-moodlike prompting. Perhaps the true memory is some overlay of the two, now impossible: your mind is two sheets of glass upon which an image is imprinted, one of them now sheared off and only half an image remaining. Or not sheared but shifted. Perhaps any new memories stored during the period of it having-shifted will be likewise imperfect should you ever shift back. Perhaps they are always shifting, or jiggling, some chaotic motion of circumstance and thought and flailing around, such that your entire past is ever in a flux and only briefly and inaccurately seen, each moment in isolation from each other—if seen clearly—or merged together near invisible amongst all else—if not.
In summary: you cannot say for certain anything about the mood of that day, except that you believe now that you deeply desired then to be elsewhere. On each iteration back through it you bring the cool you or the frustrated you or the angry or t errified you; the foolish and broken you of the now. It was most likely, given what you assume of yourself based on your cataloging of events so far, that you were bored. Bored but irritated, perhaps. Whether it was the greatest triumph of your life or the worst disaster, when you strip away the raw chemical content brought by any momentary euphoria or fight or otherwise, that was no doubt your general disposition. You may be mistaken.