Happiness and I.

Happiness and I have been next-door neighbors all my life, for as long as I have lived.

We have been parallel lines

train tracks that never cross

polls of a magnet that repel one another.

We have been a definition of everything that never coincided

and never will.

But that does not mean I don't think of it when the thoughts inside my head decide to quiet down and I look outside the window as I wash the dishes in the sink. Suddenly, the chirping doesn't pierce through my head, the weather doesn't seem too cold and the sky is the perfect shade for that sachet of caramel coffee I'd been saving.

I am guilty of stealing brief moments from dear life to smile at myself and think, I'm so glad I decided to wear socks to bed tonight. Maybe this is what happiness feels like. And at that given moment, I would sheepishly smile to myself, much like a child seeing his parents exchanging endearments, and think to myself; this is it, this is what it is.

happiness is wearing fuzzy socks to bed at night.

Yet, I ask myself

over

and over

and over,

Why must I walk a path that is not taken by fortune? Why must I always be repelled by it, yet deep inside long for it? But I do not understand why I must always steer away. It is like a petty game of 'he loves me, he loves me not' except that I already know how it ends.

Yet, the stubbornness of this heart of mine prevails, and I, bound by my desire to live on - a life untouched by lunacy, create a fantasy for myself. A fantasy that is breath to me. A fantasy where bliss and I are synonyms, uninterrupted by waves of melancholy. Where I do not pretend that the shade of happiness is a little too bright for me.

Where we coincide, not as forbidden lovers exchanging stolen glances, but as soulmates.

And somehow, that is enough to put my exhausted dispossessed body to sleep. It is a secret I do not speak of - that fantasy is only an activity of imagining the impossible.

it does not turn real...no matter how desperately you hope.