Happiness is a drunken fool.
I often think most of us are lucky with the few days they remember they were truly happy. We walk through life trying to keep a job, make some money, and then do some things to make ourselves happy for that sliver of a few days in our lives. Is happiness a weeks' memories in some foreign sun bathed island? I hate it when I have time on my hands. I go over and over the little details of people I meet, the pictures I see, and the e-mails I receive. I wonder if I am capable of understanding my own life anymore. I try not to stretch too far, my imagination tends to darken. It's a failing of mine. I always think the worse, and hope for the best. I am generally never surprised and yet, these little details come back to me. Things I ought to not let bother me, creeps up in some form to remind me I truly am alone. I think the more we search, the more we're disappointed in that search. It's a reminder, harsh reminder of how easily hopes can be dashed and dreams disappear. It tells me that happiness, although so striking in its pose, is nothing but a drunken fool stumbling late into a party, and looking for a place to park itself.
When I have time, I think about the people I have met in the past. I think about how they are now. And I wonder if they're happy with their lot in life. I often think how great they were to have been in my life and to have made me who I am to this day. And I wonder if they still think about the person they met in their past. Do we forget so easily? I feel as if the days are working against me. It ticks on by faster and faster. I am afraid tomorrow will be here already.
Someone told me that the best advice they can ever give me is to do what you feel is best for yourself. But what if doing what is best for yourself is not an option? What if you know what is best for you, is not within your reach? Do the greatest ideas ever get diluted? Are we merely champions of complacency and compliance to something as mundane as compromise? Do we ever truly get what we want?
I live in a world that begs no description. It's distasteful and disgusting and yet here I reside. It's within these four walls, I hear my own echoes. They're whispers spoken in dread. I feel the tension in the air and I am rooted by my own wavering confidence. Do I move forth with nothing but the memories of yesterday to hold me, or do I start anew; and build new walls around myself?
When there is time to think, I tend towards a downward spiral. It's a constant struggle to remain afloat, treading water in a giant sea with no land in sight. It's only when I close my eyes, slow the beat of my heart, do I float, and gasp for a bit of air.
I can breathe.