About Happiness

Of course happiness does not exist in the distillable, packable sense most people imagine it. Like you could just enter a pharmacy and buy some drug for a few dollars that makes all the troubles in life go away. Like a perfect woman could exist for a man, or a perfect man for a woman, and when they meet, there are no more misunderstandings, no selfishness, no anger, just eternal serenity, constant satisfaction, gaiety and good health. Like happiness could be anything else than craving for the unreachable!Most people spend their lives methodically, industriously and unrelaxingly preparing for happiness. They come up with plans to be happy, they travel and work for this end, gathering the ingredients of happiness with the diligence of ants and the voracious instincts of tigers. And when their life is over, they find out that it’s not enough to gather all the ingredients of happiness. You have to be happy during all that. And they had forgotten this. - Sándor Márai

I've spent just days looking at this quote. I kept the webpage up on my browser for far too long (like I do with every webpage, it seems) and I'd just read it and re-read it. I'd think about what it means to me and what it means for everyone else and who I should show it to and who needed to see it the most.

I think it's me. I'm the one who needs to remember it the most. It's time I stop looking for the ways I can force philosophies on other people's lives and just look at it through the lens of my own.

Take today, for example. Today, it's one of those days I wrote about last week. You know, the "black snake moan." I'm shaky and frustrated and there's nothing there to cause it. Nothing changed. I'm still me. Everything is still everything. Yet here I am, pounding words into a free write, something I only do when I can't write anything else.

Blogs don't come easily anymore. Scripts don't come at all. I thought for about two minutes that a novel would be cool to work on, but of course I don't know anything about that. It's not writer's block. Not at all. Nothing comes at all then. The faucet is completely shut off. This is a faucet that sputters and sprays in all different directions, but you can't do anything with it. You just pray it doesn't spray it all over your clothes before you have to go out in public. Even at 25, you still don't want to look like you peed yourself. No one believes that sink story.

See? Look at that tangent I took you through. That has nothing to do with what we were talking about. This is about happiness. This is about me. This is about finding my peace.

I was about to end the post with "Does anyone know where I left it?" I like to have a little tag at the end of a post. A last joke or something of the like. It would just make absolutely no sense with this post. This post is about finding happiness in the midst of the turmoil. It's about weathering the storms because they're a part of life. It's about realizing that the days that I hate my writing the most are still days that I wrote.

That, for the moment, feels like happiness.