“Happiness” is a funny word, it means little to me due to it’s extreme generality, a word who’s lack of definition is suspicious. Suspicious of what however, is it too good to be true? And too good for what, happiness? I’m not sure if it is time to give up on this word and whether it’s exhausted itself, I cannot decide on that today. I’d rather like to think it is more suspicious why everyone can agree no one is happy. Without knowing what happiness means, it could nonetheless be said that all appears to be in a constant state of crises. Naivety might be a more fitting word for what I’m trying to address but that means something very specific, something that is never intentional nor pursued. For now though, happiness is the dimness of a dimly lit room, I touch the edges of a glow and let seep from the skin of my fingers the borders of light extend into me, enjoying the hints of warmth, a soft yes. Happiness is both an invitation and an acceptance and I don’t accept invites, invites are instead accepted and always welcomed in the face of happiness. And when the face is mine, I’ll be there with no memory of the smile.
I, as strange as it sounds, believe there is nothing harder in this world than to be happy, which gives it all the more importance. I tip my hat to those who are in silence. I’m not suggesting what may only be a problem of the word, namely a sentimental return to being happy and all should remember to be happy. I’d then be confusing happiness as a problem itself which has already been one of humans greatest mistakes. Happiness can never be expected because I am never deprived of it, happiness deprives nothing from anything and is why its source is non-negotiable. The only possible problem of happiness is that I’m happy and you’re not and I don’t know why; the penultimate concern is sadness. Nothing is sadder than knowing I cannot share the warmth where there is none to be shared, and there are many reasons it may not be. What’s sad is becoming happier than I was before meeting you and happy enough now to leave.
That’s the moment you are destined to leave the room, running with the little candle through the wind, your hands sheltering the front of the flame as it wavers and the cool drafts graze the reds of your cheeks. Red because the airs cold, because the flame is too hot and close to your face or because you are crying? Who knows, but only the glow of the flame keeps your tears from freezing in the outside, only the glow lets you see the distance of darkness between the whites of snowfall as you run. Cry, cry, cry, you must cry in fear that there is no more happiness. Run, run, run, you have no time to be melancholic or angry. Otherwise, you’d be screaming into the snow hoping someone may hear and no one knows how deep snow is. It is too deep down for anyone living there to survive and there’s no reason to look for survivors if you aren’t certain of survival. Death is always imminent in the certainty of survival.
Truly, snow is your worst enemy since no one knows how long it shall fall nor how long it has fallen for. Every flake is the same as the last and it very well will accumulate, wiping out your footprints before finding an abode where the candle can rest. You never know who or what may be waiting for you there but the warmth of the glow is always enough, even after the coldest winters.
