It may come as a shock, but I'm actually happy sometimes. Rarely. But sometimes. I never know what to do with it. It gives me hope, that is fragile. Gives me love, to be lost. Friends, to not trust. Makes me feel disposable. No wonder I'm nobody's favourite. Even I hate the guy staring back at me in the mirror. Pathetic. When it all is my fault. I ask, why won't I let myself be happy? It seems to me, that everybody else does it easy. And when I'm happy, it feels amazing. Free. Like the breeze in a spring midday. Perfect. I wish it always was like that. But I have to stop myself from getting used to it.
Because the clock will always strike 3...
