Happiness comes in fits and spells. Happiness is like a wave, it crests and then it falls, smashing to pieces and mixing with everything that lies below it. It becomes one small piece in an ocean of weight. Weight built on rage and joy and sadness and melancholy. Hate and joy. And life has plenty of both. Sometimes I feel like I could and should tear the world apart with hate and joy. Sometimes I feel like that’s all that lies on the edges of everything I know. Just hate and joy, and when the mania soaks the tissue of my brain they lay there in bed together, and ask me to smash holes in windows. To smash holes to escape, to escape out into the world out there or to escape, because I can’t feel the pain in my heart when there’s blood on my hands and my knuckles throb in pain. Then I can’t feel the indescribable, indefinable pain that’s been laid down by years and years of weight, the load, the straps ripping into my shoulders under the weight.
Happiness is a constant and moving destination, it is not definable and you can never rest in it’s comfort forever. For comfort is not happiness, comfort is comfort. You could tear yourself to pieces always looking for happiness, always searching, always picking up and moving, always chasing an always moving thing. So you must ask yourself, at some point in life, what it is you want? Happiness? Or Comfort? And will you have the will and courage to be faithful, like lovers, no longer searching, no longer seeking that which does not exist, but resting in the comfort of a voice in your ear when they put you in the ground?
Will you have the courage to lie in bed with the other, happiness or comfort and ignore all of the possibilities that lie on the other’s shore? Will you let your choice whisper into your ear until you’ve given yourself up to sleep, finally alone in freedom, or burdened by comfort?