Happiness—what is it—you may wonder?
It is not easy to understand for sure
Or maybe, not as out of reach
Or as difficult as it seems to be.
So, happiness—what is it afterall?
Is it not followed by the excitement that one experiences after a fall
Due to the adrenaline rush throughout her body?
Is it something else really?
So, is one the another or one arrives and the other follows suit?
Who makes this rule book?
How do you know what is happiness for me?
Do you not think it is about the perspectives that are held by each individual and differ with everybody?
Or then, we settle at this argument
That happiness is subjective
And is dependent on perspectives?
And all that are completely positive—those opinions are its augments?
Is happiness growth or is it success?
Success is an outcome and growth is progress.
So, which among them can we categorize as happiness
And why would not the other be included in this radius?
What are the parameters?
What is the scale?
When the numbers are innumerous,
Where will you put happiness if I asked you to rate?
For one, you may choose salary or money and call it happiness
But then, why is it that even when it is not temporary, please keep saying that they need to find happiness?
So, then, money is not happiness but only one of the steps of the staircase that is to be used if one wants to achieve happiness.
Then, is happiness equal to achievement, even if it is not seen as success?
If you leave what is holding you behind,
You will feel a sense of freedom or independence.
Intuition brings you insight and wisdom and you look at the lessons that you learnt through your experience
When you come out of the chaos, with regret comes understanding in hindsight.
With this, she ends her poem. She can’t write any further. She has been struggling to become a writer, a known, published writer. She has been working so hard for it that she feels worked up now. All of her thoughts feel as if have dried up now. She thinks of more poems to write. “Poems are beautiful, come to me naturally and are dear to me.” Her creations even surprised her at times. “Sometimes, I write endlessly but then, at the other times, I do not know what happens to me.” She becomes a bit sad about it. She closes her eyes but feels at peace. Oh, no. There is some commotion. What is it? She knows but she can not act upon it. “I don’t want to think about it. It is not fruitful……at least not in the moment.” She mutters to herself. Alone in her house, she starts humming. She is a beautiful singer. Singing comes naturally to her and she loves all about art. She feels one with nature and with all the cultures that have been made by humans. She clicks the pictures of the clouds and never wants to miss any opportunity to see and feel the rain from inside her house. She loves the smell of the soil and deeply inhales it in. She keeps staring at the ground for a very long period of time, as if words will come out of its spaces and pores and will arrange themselves in front of her to write something new. She reads her poem again. “Happiness”. “What makes me happy?” she thinks. “Compassion, love, animals, birds and…..” she gave it a thought. She is not sure if she should admit it to herself. “Does he…..never mind.” She shrugs the thought off her mind.
“Maybe, I should grab a cup of coffee.” She mutters and goes to the kitchen to prepare one for herself. She loves drinking hot coffee when the weather becomes a bit colder, like right now. She thinks again. “I need to write another poem.” She thinks. She puts the cup of coffee down on the table in front of her, looks out of the window that was situated towards her left side and stares at nothing for long. “Maybe, happiness is not as bad a topic to explore further, is it?” she says to herself. She picks up her phone and writes,
“Are you ok?” everyone asks that.
“Are you happy?” Nobody asks that.
Have you ever thought about why is it so
That happiness is taken so much for granted?
By saying that one is ok, is one’s happiness also warranted?
Is one happy, how would that be evaluated?
“No, it is becoming repetitive. I need to think again.” She grabs her cup of coffee and gulps down half of it. “I need to make another one.” She sips the rest of it and starts preparing another cup of coffee for herself. “Does happiness have a structure to it?” she thinks. She thinks about adding it to her poem. Then, taking her cup of coffee with her, she returns to the sofa and sits there. She takes the pen in her hand and continues writing,
Does happiness have a structure
Or a fixed pattern that can be studied?
Or is it fluid but not as fixed
As one perceives it to be—like gender?
“Where did that come from—the aspect of gender? I was not consciously thinking about it or was I?” she says to herself. “The people talk about happiness but do not let people identify themselves however they prefer to. Hypocrites. So, is happiness hypocrisy? She thinks and after pondering over it for a while, comes to a conclusion, “No, happiness is not hypocrisy. It is an emotion. How can it, then, be hypocrisy? The people who carry this wrong perception and project it on other people to pass judgements are hypocrites.” This brings her to another question. “Why do they pass judgements?” She finds its answer, “because they are insecure?” She is not sure. Another question is making her curious, ”Why are they insecure?” she stops, gives it a thought and concludes, “because they are not happy with themselves and are finding validation by letting others down? So, they do not let others be happy because they are not happy and they think that by putting others through what they are going through will bring them happiness?” She realises that she needs to stop her train of thoughts. “I am derailing.” “Am I happy?” She thinks about it—the question that she had been trying to dodge since so long—she has to confront it. She has no choice left. She has think about it for more thoughts to come up in her mind so that she can write further. “This is not enough.” She thinks and immediately snaps.
“What is not enough? Why did that thought appear in my mind?” Then, she stops again. “I need to change the way that I am thinking in because this way is leading me to overthinking and that is certainly not helping me, in fact, it is making things worse. Let me change the question.”
Thinking too much doesn’t make her happy. She has realised this. “Shall I doze off?” She thinks aloud, “because sleeping does make me feel relaxed even if not happy.” She goes inside her bedroom and dozes off to sleep.
So, does sleeping make one happy then?
Or assuming so is just an illusion?
Is happiness, then, a never-to-be-reached destination
And it being out of reach is not even a consideration?
After receiving a good night’s sleep, she wakes up the next day, freshens up and prepares lemon with warm water. She fills it in a jar, brings it to the sofa, where the pages of her article are kept. She sips on the lemon water and lifts up her pen in mid-air. Then, she thinks about it further, “Am I happy after a good night’s sleep?” “Relaxed for sure and I do feel a bit lighter. So, a little bit.” She ends her poem:
Sleeping makes me feel a little happier.
She dozes off to sleep again.