I never want to be happy again because the last time I was over the moon — I crashed and burned. There is an unspoken understanding that in order to internalize pure joy — everything has to be fitted into slots that don’t leave spaces in between.
Those cranky roomy slots let out a stench that affects even those who don’t know you best. It needs to fit. The pictures have to boast the resolution that makes you like it immediately — without any reservations. The job must be the kind that will elevate your status even without describing how miserable you are each time you place your coffee cup on the desk — that holds your tormentor. The hubby must arrive on time without delay and the appearance of you and the partner of your dreams must not remain a dream. It has to be real and it has to be good enough to convince you that the guy or girl you met by accident who warmed your senses — isn’t just a vague figment of what you refused to visualize when the going was good.
It sounds amazing to say it aloud in a crowd while you hold the tequila shot that you took moments ago, but for some reason still clogs your glass. Internally after too many of those odorless vitamins that never does a body good — you realize that everyone around you is happy while you sit and stew in discontentment.
How does happiness pass you by like a stranger that reached out for help but you rejected with a whiff of your pompous temperament — that doles out the non-reality of being in a state-of-mind — that exists only when the stars blaze the sky with hopeful audience on standby — waiting to authenticate your worthiness.
I am happy because I am so sad I can hardly stand it.
I don’t have a permanent home address. I never found my dream job. I am good at what I do but somehow not good enough to Tweet or Instagram why and how I am good at it. I have not been able to sustain a healthy relationship with the opposite sex because I am too old to trust anyone and too jaded to disappear into a potpourri of future nostalgia — that now serves as a fantastical treat that won’t last long enough to satisfy the need to love without a roster of demands. I am too old to have the kids that I thought would give me permission to be a woman without preceding that claim with a preposition.
I am happy when I realize that being happy is a joyous insult to what it means to be who you have decided to be — despite how righteously hard it may be.
When I was a little girl, happiness was the detour that my father sometimes made after church because it meant we would have a deviation from the norm. Happiness to me was Sunday dinners when the house was held hostage by the spices of the meals that I was supposed to help prepare — but I could never tear away from my walkman long enough to withstand the labor. Happiness was when I found out that I was coming to America. I was ready for college and the land of my birth was supposed to make all my dreams come true in a Hollywood fashion because that is what I was groomed to believe.
In order to be happy — you must be American.
I was always American but at this very moment I am more American than happy. After all the years of miscommunication, misinformation and misguidance — I have finally made it to the other side. The bosom of my charitable lies — no longer protect me from what it means to be a human being. I am totally aware and free with the knowledge that dampens the spirit, but exaggerate the headlights that need to shine in full blast.
I never want to be happy again because such a privilege should be reserved for people like you. You need to believe that you will get to that place where nothing can hamper the facilitators — that work overtime to renew the expired tastes.
Enjoy the sprinkles of dew that never dip into a caked manifestation of what you never want to recognize — even with designer sunglasses and the retina level only a machine of want can amass.
I want to be human and alive and then dead again and then brought back to life by the amazement that no matter how bad things get — I still wake up like a sphinx that needs to brush of her scaly skin in order to bump past the happy bumpers that roll along with misty eyeballs.
Mine are clear and when the sun blazes my path — I feel happy…