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Have you ever really been happy?
It’s a question I’m often asking myself,
So I felt it right to pose the same thought to you.
Of course happiness is one of those indefinable things,
Immortal and inaccessible
As well as indescribable.
That’s why I can never really answer with a yes.
I can say I have been content at times,
That something someone has said, or someone has done,
Has made me smile.
But has that made me happy?
I cannot reply.
What is happiness?
I mean, truly.
Is it love?
Or excitement?
Or something for which there are really no words,
Like all of the best things.
I cannot say.
I don’t think I have ever been happy.
It’s the curse of a western perspective,
Where everything is assessed and constructed
The randomisation of events is constantly evaluated
In some vain attempt for self affirmation
Or perhaps understanding.
Either way it provides me only with a constant source of melancholy.
A means for describing the inadequacies of expectation
And the inevitable hum of monotony
Which is occasionally interspersed with a smile.
Don’t get me wrong, as I feel am perhaps myself,
I am not unhappy.
I do not go to bed with worries or fears,
Depression does not sleep next to me,
Not keep me awake with prodding finger.
Yet still happiness eludes me.
What makes people say they are happy?
Or act ‘happy’, if there is such a thing.
If it is some greater purpose,
Smiling down on them telling them they’re ok,
That they’re doing what they’re supposed to,
Then I suppose I will never feel happiness,
As I do not feel this is the case.
Do I lie in bed awake worrying that I am not happy?
: No.
Do I lie sleep thinking all is well?
: No.
Does this make me sleep better or worse?
: No.
I suppose whatever happens –
You just have to stay calm
And carry on.
--Ideas are most welcome on the matter.--
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Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.
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I am the only constant, and I keep on changing.
