i can't write about happiness.
it comes easy to me. yet its so foreign.
it comes easy to me, but not as easy as slipping back into old habits and picking at wounds.
i cant seem to live in the moment. i think about how its going to end even before it starts. i suppose thats my curse.
happiness also feels heavy. it rests on my lungs like white roses and wounds.
i watch the movie theatre around me, being fixated on fiction, not having a care in the world. that's happiness.
i watch my mother and father joke as they sit across each other. that's happiness.
perhaps happiness doesn't have to come from me for me to feel it.
maybe, i just need to look around.
just like the litter of puppies i noticed in a dark corner. they reminded me of the street dog u were fond of. i can't remember her name now. i do remember that u buried her pup when it died in an accident.
i find sadness in happiness and vice versa. maybe thats my crime.
but ive never been so happy and sad before and i love living but i wish to not spend another breathing moment on this planet and i miss u but i wont call and i can pretend not to be happy but the world just proves me wrong.