Is anyone? How do you quantify happiness? And in relation to what? As a man? As a human? As a citizen? How does anyone who has been cursed with self awareness wake up with out screaming and pissing themselves? How do the happy ignore the bomb dropping in the distance? Is happiness another word for distracted? Do we give up part of ourselves to be happy? Are some of us so desperate to be happy that we crawl on all fours like a dog? Is happy another level of contentment? Or is contentment just a form of tunnel vision? Do we have to put the blinders on to be happy? What do we gain from being happy? Is the physical response enough to live on? Can we quite our thoughts enough to let the endorphins do their work? Are you looking for happiness? Are you looking for a yes or no answer? How long before looking leads to coveting? Is God happiness? Is religion happiness? Is a new outfit happiness? Is getting fucked up happiness?
I could go on and on.. All I have done is pass along what runs through my head every morning before I am even out of bed. It always ends with the same question, "What the fuck am I doing with myself?" To which I respond differently each time, if I even have a response. I haven't yet convinced myself that happiness is a real thing. Humans conventions are so ingrained in us, making us believe that there is inherent qualities to something that doesn't exist. All a person can do, I believe, is examine surroundings and make conclusions. I am in good health, therefore I am happy. I am not crippled, therefore I am happy. I am not starving, therefore I am happy. Suffering always exists but only because we are cursed with consciousness. Resort to the primitive. An animal looks to us and thinks, "All their needs are met and they have no natural predators." If they had a definition for happiness, this would be it. We are bombarded on all sides by things that tell us we are not complete until we buy this or do that or look this way or act this way or believe this or that. FUCK ALL THAT! Do we need others, sure. Do we need Calvin Klein, fuck no.
Ever since we left the caves, built bigger and better implements that cater to our nature and stared into the sun, calling it chicken, we have questioned more than we should. We cast the sacred bones and shake our fists at the gods, calling for a miracle or relying on the microscope to take away the pain. There has been a disconnect from ourselves. We have lost, or never had, the part of our animal selves that keeps the modern man in check.
Primitively. As cavemen, we are kings. Kings set upon thrones of the dead, staring into flickering screens, waiting for some sort of absolution. Our subjects gone, starved or left for better places, our court decaying around us, and still we stare into those screens, looking for validation. On and on and on.
fuckit...
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