Where is my mind?
Sometimes it is a little teller with an annoying voice that screams at you when you realize that life is really not all that short. Time is merely consistent when you're life remains the same and whose does? Maybe that didn't make any grammatical sense but who the hell determined that grammar made sense anyway? To communicate effectively does not rely on efficient spelling, accent, or grammar but the grand meaning of the message. To those that are blind speak in touch, those that are deaf speak in sight, and those who are mute speak with write.
Life flows on like a looping highway that takes 10 years to fully circle. People who consistently stop for the broken down take longer, as those who speed on by end too quickly, threatening their own span of the circle, reaching dangerous speed and aggressiveness to achieve perfect insanity. Those who spend a whole 10 years sitting on the side of the highway when their car decides to take a break are just as bad or just as good (depending on how you approach such matters). There is no quickest way to the end. There is only the circle in which our lives are held onto by little strips of leather and plastic.
Would you like to sit by and watch the world scream through? I would hope not; that makes you a quite sever masochist. To allow yourself to be a martyr and blaming the world or even a bit of the world for why you bleed through your chest. Perhaps the thought never occurred to you that you are the one who stepped into the path, deciding not to move, deciding to demand. To hate endlessly on the people who pass through you because your needs can not be met by them is the greatest act of victimization yet to be seen. For all that pass in the future, good luck; for all that stop with her, I'm sorry. It can be interesting to spend the night puking because somebody doesn't like you or nobody likes you and step outside and find nobody cared. Some people never experience that and spend their lives on the side of the highway, getting mad because no one will stop for them.
A small bird once told me a fantastic story. It was how this small bird began to fly. 600 times, he would say, he jumped out of the nest. One time, he flew. 599 times the mother cried because he died. 599 times he died. By the time he felt the wind push under his feathers there was nothing left alive in him to enjoy it; only bitter resentment at the fact it took him so long to fly. Merely one year later this small bird forgotten 599 times of failure. His mother had forgotten her wounds. I asked this small bird, what about space?
Happiness is undefinable, no matter how much you try. It is a feeling that is reached quickly and ends quickly. Perhaps, for you, it can be a quiet sunny day with a quiet sunny book. For her it might be someone willing to please her and please her until there is nothing left of her. To him it might be making loud jokes and taking risks and flirting as any young boy should do. To them it may be riches. For us it may be love. The matter is not what exactly happiness is, the matter is why exactly your happiness is.
And finally, for those who refuse to ask questions because they fear answers, refuse to change because they fear change, refuse to love because they can not be loved, and refuse to be better because they fear pain, I ask you, here now and with no real chance of an answer; How well can you be happy?
