Just as the ceiling begun to crackle, my skin trembled wrapped around musty veins and the cosmic question surfaced with a smack and a boom ba da boom, silencing the chaos inside my brain: for how long can we willingly stay happy? Are we meant to last forever under the spell of bliss? I tried. I rested my temples on the cold glass of water, breathing diligently and with a mindfulness to last me for ten lifetimes. I am happy. I am not happy. I want to be happy. Empty the glass of water and the brain of thoughts. I lay here in the dark, with a candle burning as a reminder of what I could have, what I could be. Flesh starting to hurt from so much mindfulness, making me the intruder of my own self: wanted or unwanted – that’s another question.
I tried. Ten seconds go by as ten centuries. I should choose the number nine instead of the ten. Ten is too compact; one would only expect repetition after a ten, under a mask of another cycle. With a nine, things are a lot different. There are all the numbers behind it, but nine is not the last one in line. Nine is as paradoxical as the soul – the soul migrates through a number of years and even if the flesh attends the number ten as the finish line, the soul doesn’t know it yet. There is always that hope that keeps the soul trapped within the number nine – an echo after the wind swept the song away.
I am happy without knowing it. My flesh doesn’t know it; maybe that’s why it hurts so much. My soul seems not to know it either. Then who’s the happy one in here? My plan to be happy is happy, that is. My plan transcended into an entity in itself and it now takes a will on its own. I suppose it borrows it from my will, otherwise where did the other half go? I’ll answer this one too: where it goes every time when I’m having a panic attack while trying to stay happy. To the limbo’s PO box of lost “nine” souls, I guess.
Tears, huh. Let me tell you, these little rascals are something else, you know? There is not only the water composition (very picturesque), it’s also the weight. This weight takes something tangible (salt and water) out of your body and brings you back something intangible, such as a tender calm. The same goes with a sigh, it takes out air, it brings back hope. I hope tears and sighs have a soul too, a tiny one, like a pixie.
Flesh is magic in that matter. One would think flesh is stupid, just a programmed matter under the influence of immovable laws, probabilities, and accidents. I see flesh is like a mailman carrying tons of mail never addressed to him, but he has to obey the route, the destination, and the traffic rules. When everything else suddenly decides they don’t want to act upon that piece of meat called the mailman (as in human body), and then the human body doesn’t have a choice or a will, it just dies. The laws and the rest act like a heartless queen who moves on to another chocolate cake, another horse-riding trainer, another throne. The flesh is magic because the flesh doesn’t really care. When the time is up, laws and happiness can beg on their knees for another ten, aaa, nine seconds of life, nothing happens, nada, nula, c’est fini la comédie. Flesh always wins, because flesh just is.
What keeps the happiness going is my ambivalence. I love(d) my mother. I hated my mother – that’s what a shrink told me. I don’t think I hated her. I think I am angry with the fact that she didn’t stop the abuse and she sided with the abusers. Actually, she adored them both, she died for them. But hello, I was talking about happiness here, not about the past. As in an adulterous story, I the public vituperate against the vilified home wrecker woman, not against the guy who broke the marital vows by committing the adultery. I am not that angry against my abusers, I wonder why? But I have a grudge with my mother. As with happiness, it comes and goes, that’s why I said it actually stays. It should feel like staying, don’t you think? Happiness is the adulterous guy who is domestically sharing himself with us half of the week, while the other half of the time he’s in love. So, it means he’s staying, as long as he’s not totally and definitively leaving us, right?
Fooling around trying to count the blessings I can bring to the table for Her Highness Happiness, I end up short-handed. She doesn’t need me. My life happens to her, she being the flesh of life. I happen to nobody, me being the air of a sigh taken away by the wind. I mean, right now. But tomorrow I’ll be the song itself, nonetheless.
I bet my happiness misses me when I’m not around it.
Oh, yes, I almost forgot, duh – the recipe to stay happy for as long as you wish, candle or no candle. Look into the mirror until your breath gets it all foggy and use syllables for this afformation: Among of all the cosmic accidents cracking this humongous universe during every nanosecond and from all the infinite possibilities given by gazillion stars and particles, my life had to happen to me and only me. That makes me pretty fucking special. The end.