About Your Happiness

Here’s the problem, my friend. 

You’ve told me everything about what you’ve been up to and the sum total of it seems to be that you… are not happy. 

Now I know you can point to many good things in your life, blessings, gifts, scars well-earned. 

You tell me how much you love the crowds, and the restaurants, and the oncoming buzz. 

But near the end of the evening, when all the slacks and jackets and party dresses have been tossed in the laundry or rehung, you are not filled with the joy that twirls at the center of the world. 

You don’t wake up enamored of life, and the morning, and the process of living a day. 

You tell me with the suffix of, “I bought a new piece of plastic (or metal, or cloth). One I have been looking for. One that I know will bring me my happiness. I’ve booked a trip to a far off destination. Signed up for classes. Found a new city and am planning to move.” 

Your life is so very frenetic. 

As if jumping from one lustful passion to another will somehow fill it. But the bucket has no bottom. You’re lighting the gas of your longing with what matches. Yet you seem devout in your sadness. It’s pervasive. 

And there’s nothing anyone can do. Do you think about this? This. Right here. Spent some hours listening to the sounds that wander through the rooms of your dwelling, the edifice of your imagination, the cavernous, high ceilinged room of your heart. 

We’ve known each for a long time and so I can share with you a secret. I can see into your heart. Not just yours, everyone’s. When I meet someone it takes about a minute. Their bodies dissolve and I see instead the inner layer of their skin, the one that has been with them since youth. 

Yours glows. 

It swims between pink and yellow. It has these lovely eddies that curl around your belly when you eat and around your head, like a halo, when you remember lovely things. 

But so often you tamp it down, get filled with this grey malice that starts at the surface and pushes, like weight, against these savory colors to your feet, where they pool and quiver. 

I think, (and what do I know?), if you just let sat still. Here. Right here. 

And listened. And looked. And took in this scene, with no care in the world or plan for anything, you could feel them start to move, to rise up to your knees, overtake your belly, swim in a circle around the flute of your throat. 

They’ll fill your eyes. They’ll color how you see the world. They are here, just below your skin, so thin. Your beauty bursting out which requires no paint and no coat. No sales receipt or title. 

It’s you. I see. Swirling out wildly.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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