Floating on Daydreams

Fatal Flaws

A friend may not be a friend, maybe they're more..or less.

Maybe everything you've ever thought about is worthy of being written down and published and given accolades for being so worthy of recognition..maybe not. Probably not.

Maybe I am happy, but underneath that happiness is a blanket of sadness that leaves me cold, and will leave me cold, possibly forever. It's strange, isn't it-- the idea of a blanket being under something as opposed to over it? It defeats the purpose of its creation. But what is the purpose of a blanket? To keep us warm? Safe? How does that matter at all? Why do we crave comfort from things that simply cannot offer it?

If everything I've ever known is about to come to an end when my time is up, why do I bother doing anything at all? College. Grades. Love. It all seems mundane and pointless. And I suppose, if you really think about it, there is no point, other than to make us feel good about ourselves. Which brings me back to the hamartia of being human. And no matter how much we try to escape it, losing our identity is inevitable. 370,000 babies are born everyday. 7,239,99,365 people are alive right now. You are only one of them. As upsetting as this may seem, hoping to be remembered is futile.

Happiness is a state of mind that is longed for by everyone. Very few people actually acheive it--the real kind of happiness; the kind that means they are happy, no matter what. They might be affected by sadness once in a while, but their happiness is the blanket that covers them, not lying aimlessly underneath them with its purpose defeated. 

I want an effective blanket, even though I know that I probably don't deserve it. My insatiable thirst for happiness defines me. Does that make me selfish? Or could it possibly be the one thing that makes me human?