Happiness

The sun will rise, the sun will set and in hours the sun will rise again, where or how it finds you, the sun cares not; your ruination, your retrogression or your progress and conquest all depend on how determined you are in life, within you is the choice, not without. Oh my God! I said that as if I have traversed beyond the level of needing motivation myself, whereas, if every thinker is self-sufficient, he’d known not that the numeric figures count beyond the ten of his fingers and the ten of his toes. Thanks to everyone and everything around us, foolish and wise, useful and useless, what we know which makes us who and what we are, are derived from them; we’re subconscious imitators of our acquaintances.

Happiness is a slut; she mates with anyone who woos her solemnly, but she’s not a whore; she doesn’t force herself on those whose hearts are closed to her romance. And you could be wealthy and everything around you touched by perks of rock and roll, yet do you see happiness crawling all over you? Not necessarily! She’s a bitch but not a cheap bitch. Stop—stop—stop, you’ve started again! Who tells you your life sucks the most and is beyond the grasp of happiness? Whose life doesn’t suck and are we not happy anyway? Do you think because I write stuffs to motivate you, I’m automatically motivated myself? Writers that write to amuse could be the most depressed beings, and what they’d like to hear, they tell you, in regrets that they’re not being told such, and their writings thusly, return home to roost, reviving their wits. Wise up buddy!

Life is a wicked host and it throws dirt at everyone who passes through it. If you do not see it as a usual thing, you’d lose your salt and then lose your taste, and when you lose your taste, you become embittered and despicable, not only hating yourself but also ending up being hated by your neighbours. God help us all! Nobody is capable of making anyone who is not ready to be happy, happy.  Tickles draw laughter but lasts a minute; sex distracts but ends with the fluidic discharge, but one thing alone is capable of making us happy, ourselves if we look at the world from a far distance rather than closely. People could open your eyes to common sense and place a beautiful baby in your hands, and it could work for a day or two, your depressions suppressed by the sight of innocence in your hands, if you still don’t look at life from distance rather than closely, back at it you are, sad fool.

Is anyone even sane at all? A farmer loathes his life and whenever he sees airplanes fly above, he thinks, if only I were rich, I would travel in one of those and enjoy life. Alas the rich man in the plane also looks down and thinks; if I could just retire from all these hassles, I’d settle at a farmhouse with my children, fish, hunt games, get my boots dirty and enjoy life. Just imagine! Most of the ladies in the city also dream of becoming celebrities, thinking they’d be expensive magnets of affluent suitors and they could select best men and have happy and fulfilled conjugal lives. How many of the celebrities, if I may ask are in happy nuptial settings if even in any matrimonial home at all? If you think becoming like someone will make you happy like she looks in magazines, you’re burying alive the unique person you’re born to be, I disappointingly register my rest in peace.

Embrace who you are; laugh genuinely, sing optimistically, dance cheerfully, pray emotionally, jog freely, swim liberally, run copiously, write compassionately, climb optimistically, jump happy-go-luckily, watch movies, get laid, act, talk, love, laugh and put a smile on your face, I bet you’d almost confuse God that you’re a gentleman. Be happy, live. Be sad, live but in the past of your present. The choice is yours.

I was told in heaven that life is amusing,
So I came with guts to drink and party.
But here the daily unbelievables get things confusing,
Is this even the place for gaiety?

Friends say ignore and long you shall live,
So I unzipped and blessed a whore.
But twice in a month, my joy, circumstances bereave,
Hijacked from my heart and washed not ashore.

What would you have to be happy?
Mother says love as if it’s easy.
Yet all my efforts only make me look crappy,
Here I am, tipsy, flimsy, marveling in emotional epilepsy.

I look at the world and I see nothing
That can make us happy except our minds.
I’d write, read, and occasionally go hunting
No expectations, no unbuttoning and locking of hinds.

-Lord eBay (and his thoughts)