be
it happiness or deaths as cargo is thrown so many whales inside. I ate an
elephant so much suppression so wild the way they leave us. to see me suffering
to utter more love while nothing changed. I love life as some affirmation while
I can’t feel it; as it dances in motion so splayed aside a dying carcass. but
happiness, our main idea, to have so much one becomes mischief. a quarter to 1
a.m., a soul praying, such rabid orison. a body aglow a sail to shore a night
he never woke up. as walking or celebrating so gray into indigo where souls are
born in igloos. so cold in graves so close like personal so easy to make
passion. a dear issue a problem unsolved where we look for solvent; to efface
essence to clear debris in a world where skies are shattering. but happiness—that
friend inside—as belated at critical spaces, so bled dry so gimmicky with pain
seeming a requisite. those tender seconds when life is erased while a sensation
makes a grin. winning inside so at peace inside to need a contrary feeling—if but
to reference if but to see while we often look at surroundings. so many
elements such core beliefs while I pay you in order to become you. such outward
positions such façades or so clear it’s pain to understand; to have an alien some
part of our souls while it will never disappear; as hope is management or
recruiting interior or beefing those midnight skills. but what is happiness—this
person in spirit—this unspoken ecclesial machine. we leave happiness to winds,
if it comes such as it may be, but longsuffering seems to be in accord with
naturality. some beg to differ, but how deep have you gone, plus,
superficiality is misery? but what is happiness, has it come, how did it come?
what must I do? how must I live? what am I doing wrong? at temple at decaf at
vegetables; at prayer, meditation, or mindfulness; (that nothingness neither
left nor right but content—this is happiness; finding our souls busy, with
something priding, as humble creatures). we want elation, but much happiness is
a sign, something is askew. we make mistakes. we seem lively. we hurt ourselves.
but where is happiness? in a chimney in a gutter in total isolation from
responsibility? such false happiness so many problems happiness, like having
everything but doing nothing happiness.
