Where does my happiness lie?
Where does anybody’s happiness lie?
Is happiness hidden somewhere in truth and honesty? Or is it loosely packaged and served to us as reality, it’s realization being left to every individual’s discretion.
Or is happiness in a dream?
Do dreams come true, can we force them to truth, can we make them reality, or do we just have to quietly escape into them as a last resort? Soon they’d become the only reality we know to be true.
You must wonder how pathetically depressed I am to be thinking this way. Let me tell you, I am super pathetically depressed. All great thinkers are depressed and alone. It’s only in the absence of misleading company that we actually start to think. Even if we think a lie and escape into a surreal reality, when it’s all over, we all come to the same end. We all die. Notice the word “all”. Because death is the only equality that life offers every individual.
Death is the happy fairy-tale ending to everybody’s story. We could live a tragic life while our enemies feast and celebrate but on the last page, we all condense into the same oblivion. We all die. This is our justice. Even those with lavish lives, even those with love, even those with happiness… die.
We’re not born with our stories written out. We’re born simply with a prologue. We have to write our own pathway, in any direction that we wish. But no matter what direction we take, all roads lead to the same destination.
We have to write our own reality, but why must we write it with the words we’ve been given? The words that we’ve been taught, who’s meaning we’ve been explained and who’s usage we’ve been instructed upon. The prologues are the words of our parents, and I’ve observed in most cases all we try to do is rewrite their story in our own handwriting. Maybe because we’re too afraid of our own words. Or maybe because we don’t have any words at all.
We could write our own happiness, we could think our dreams and write them into our reality. We can, but we won’t. We won’t because we haven’t still found our words. It’s not like the words are hidden away somewhere unreachable. They’re right here in the abyss of your soul. There they wallow, undiscovered. And there they decay with the remnants of our dreams that stopped blooming when we stopped believing.
So what brings out the words in us? I’d say tragedy does a pretty good job. It’s only when everybody else’s words begin to burn our skin that we turn to our own.
Lately, I’ve been mining through the abyss of my soul. I’m looking for my words. I’m desperately grasping at my dreams. I won’t let them go. If I have my dreams, at least if nothing else, my mind will be free. When death comes, my soul will be free too.
I’m done chasing impossibilities and I’m done accepting the reality that’s being forced upon me. I have my words, but I can’t force people to read them. Those that do are the people who really care. These are the soul-mates I’m looking for. That is the happiness I’d cherish. That is my dream.
When you do find your words, you’ll find your dreams. And in those dreams, tucked away will be your happiness. You’ll finally be able to expel the fear of your inevitable ending.
This would make for a good story, prologue, and all.
