My happiness, thus far, has been comprised of lies and when I shatter those lies, the happiness leaves with it. I know that happiness isn't numbness, that it isn't staring at everyone you know with the knowledge that they probably want nothing to do with you and that you can't trust any of them worth a damn. Happiness isn't feeling lost, isn't wishing you could be anywhere but where you are. Yet, while I might know this, I'm not entirely sure of what happiness is and what it does mean. I only know what I have lived.
Before, I had hope for the future. I thought that happiness was possible, right in front of me. Now, I don't know.
My idea of happiness is this. Writing books, selling them by the dozens. Whatever books I would like. Different pen names for different genres, I imagine. Not having to worry about some stupid, fake job with stupid, fake people. Having people around me who care about me, who are willing to fight for me. Who are real. Maybe I can have other people value me so that maybe it will be easier for me to believe myself and everything. Day in, day out of bliss. Hopefully, I would be able to travel the world to with some sort of lover and we could live a free, gypsy lifestyle. My reality is the complete opposite.
Will I be able to get that future? Or will I get into the same old thing once again? Fake people but only a different background? Maybe I'll like what I do but I'm not sure that that alone will make them end up feeling happy.
Maybe I need to make the most of what I have. Make it good. Make it not dependent of my surroundings. But how?
I can't help but wonder if the pursuit of happiness is only an illusion in our minds, only one great lie we live. I can't help but wonder if the bright futures we have in mind for ourselves are only there to keep us sane.
Is happy and I just an idea to make us keep running, running, running? Maybe it is; maybe it isn't.