I come to this question: What
shouldn’t we give, while pursuing happiness; this goal rapt in humanity,
this blanket of scars, this reservoir of tears; to arrive in segments, addicted
to that feeling, as to manipulate endorphins. Such held traditions—advocate
joy, an epicurean society—where bliss is manners, as to avoid pain, as one
dedicated to this lifestyle; but what of disposition, this inner whirlwind,
where one is mostly heavy: streaming through consequences, channeled by ghosts,
the product of a harsh environment? It seems explicit—this need for flowers, if
not to lean towards hedonism: this chasm of pains, as exhausting joys, filled
with this sort of sickness! So opt for balance, a sensational pyramid, where
the heart is seeking joy: this fever of times, this parade of tunnels—as to
turn to a point of stases. Such sensations—cause an imbalance, as such is known
to us as balance: this inner fiction, as coupled in realities, while forming a
slanted illusion; while still for bliss, this cultured horizon, knitting
treasured moments. We often say—The
greatest amount of joy over pain, for the greatest number of people. We
speak of good, as a living entity,
where so much is problematic. It appears as nonsense, this chase for infinite
satisfaction, within a realm of madness; but more for humans, this graph of
sadness, as compensated by bliss: to measure that next round, the hours of a
long week, this need to unwind; where joys are monitored, as judged by souls,
while examining the greater good. We
begin to wonder—of something so elusive, where moods are the roots of
happiness; where an atmosphere is pleasant, but a mood is shabby—this need to
harmonize the two; else for imbalance, as to manipulate these elements, as to
become centered in that moment. I retreat.
