KARMA

2,587 Days. . .

Chapter 7 - 2,587 days

2,587 days. . .

Happiness is a temporary high. Like drugs. Oh, exactly like drugs. Same chemical releases. Same input. Same output. Same endgame.

A temporary endgame.

To think it's a state we can exist in forever is to think it's realistic to be high forever, with no drastic coming down.

And that, of course, isn't the case. It's never the case. Remember, happiness is a temporary high. Happiness lasts for only a limited time.

After all, what goes up must always come down, right?

She used to strive to feel endless heaps of glorious happiness. She was raised by television, which entails to witnessing unrealistically happily ever afters, to believe that steady, relentless happiness is something that is wildly attainable. Which is why she feels so secretly seeped in shame for not being capable of achieving it.

We are made to believe that one day we will wake up deliriously happy, and BOOM, that will be it. The golden day will have finally arrived, and we will be alleviated from all our uneasiness once and for all.

No more tears. No more curses and spells. No more hiding away from evil stepmothers and even, jealous ones.

Her golden day came but the goldenness didn't last - like most so called happy endings.

Just generally, all that is considered bad, or something close to that, or anything that is the opposite of good will forever be cashed in.

No returns. No exchanges.

And from that moment forward, we will be enveloped in the cashmere, cozy embrace of happiness for the rest of our existence.

We dream of the mesmerising moment in which we can confidently proclaim to our loved ones, with lips curled into smug smiles, that we're finally happy now.

Oh, it's all beautiful. Wonderful. Magical. Attainable. She wanted it. Had it. Lived it. Oh, how desperately she begs on her knees to attain that again.

She's a fool falling for faux happy endings again.

But if you think about it, it's such a fucking fairy tale, isn't it?

To think it's realistic to live in the perpetual throes of endless happiness is a dangerous expectation bestowed upon us by society.

It's a myth. It's no worse than the surplus of Disney movies we watched with innocent doe eyes as untainted, impressionable, hopeful little kids.

Those sensationalised animated films we viewed over and over inadvertently brainwashed us into believing that one day, a glimmering romantic lead on a horse would magically appear and wrap us up in massive, teeming arms of steel, rescuing us from the winter of our discontent.

It's no coincidence that the fairy tale, the romantic comedy, the love story always ends at the same point in time.

That final scene is always the wedding, right? We are never privy to what happens after the gold-gilded, virgin-white wedding, are we?

Our eyes never bear witness to Snow White having postpartum depression after birthing her first child. We never fucking see Cinderella in a fetal position racked with acute anxiety after Prince Charming caught her in the throes with his over-charismatic best friend.

We never see anything beyond the passionate locking of lips between the two outrageously attractive romantic entities earnestly making their flowery vows beneath the petal-adorned alter.