Being Happy
It feels like the most horrible thing I can imagine. To try to be happy all the time. To be on the hunt for something that gives relief or some kind of cure for an invisible illness. I don't want to do that. At times I do. Than I think there is a way out of the trap that is called life. The trap or the wiring of your being, your brains. I need miracles more than anything else. A fresh breeze through my curtains.
I want moss. I want a forest. I want to be a tree.
I want to be four and do it all over. I want to be five and enjoy my life. I want to be six and forget everything after that and before that. I want to be me. I don't need to be happy. I just want to be me. Me. Myself in all it's glory, unchained, unwanted and not preaching a truth that isn't mine. I don't want to hear myself talk so that words that I speak but aren't mine enter my ears. I want the air to be clean of anything that makes it tremble, makes it smell like smoke, like drugs, like alcohol. I need lavender. I need basil. I want to live inside the pot potpourri on my table, inside the bottles with fragrances. I want to be the soft almond oil on my skin. I want to be wrapped inside myself, inside my soul, inside my being. Would that be happy? Would that be the holy grail of life, or is it like lying, like the boy who told me he would give me my marbles back and I lost them ever since. Who knows where they are? Are they still buried in the sand, where he kicked me, undressed me and stole my buckteeth from my mouth? Somewhere there on the playground there must be a marble left. I hope some kid found them. Put it in their pocket and cherished it like a treasure. That would be a happy day. I don't need to be happy but I would like my memories to give relief to others. 'You're not alone', is such a thing I would say on those moments. and: 'But what does it mean when you feel alone' I would say nice words to you, to ignite a deeper kind of truth inside yourself, so you start to tell nice stories to yourself when you can't fall asleep at night cause images of the past keep haunting you, while you wonder what people mean when they call it 'the past' It's as real as anything else. I hope. I hope that in those moments you tell yourself the stories you wanted to hear as a kid but where never read to you. In the thick book with colorful images with mouses on the front. You had to figure out yourself what the stories told you, but than it was to late already. They couldn't give comfort anymore, life was faster than the imagination of a writer. You learned faster than you should have. Be the story that can give comfort. Be real. Speak. With or without teeth, with or without hope or happiness. Just speak whatever you have to share. Stay connected. Grow from love.
