So I get to catching up with a friend of mine and we talk about, of all things, being…happy.
“Hah, I bet you’re happy that I haven’t been all that emo lately.”
“No. I don’t mind if you’re emo. Just that when you are, I get worried.”
We talk about the people we know who are unhappy. The people we think should be happy but aren’t.
Us? We’re doing OK. Life’s not perfect.
I think on things that happened over the past year and realise that sometimes, we do stupid things because we think it will make us happy.
Loving someone everyone says is bad for you, loving someone even if you know you’re going to hurt the people who already do love you, loving someone even if you know you’ll be left sad, alone and hurt.
We’re wired to want it, this elusive thing we call happiness.
Romantic love is a madness, a sickness of the brain that fools you into thinking you can’t do without it.
Leona Lewis’ Happy is, at the heart of it, ridiculous and codependant and…true.
So what if it hurts me?
So what if I break down?
So what if this world just throws me off the edge
My feet run out of ground
You run, you chase, you catch, you fall. You crash and burn. Some of us keep running all our lives. Some give up and resolve never to get up again.
I think this is what it means to be human. To bleed. To feel. To rage. To want everything. To want nothing.
Free will’s a bitch, ain’t it?
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