Whenever I think of happiness, I’m filled with this kind of hopelessness.
I can’t think of a single time when I have experienced the joy that I’ve read about – the kind of elation that spits
fire through the veins.
And that is all I’ve ever wanted. I’m not interested
in money, or popularity;
I’m not even interested in love, if I am being honest
with myself. I just
want to find a way to be happy for half-a-second; an instant.
I want to know what it is like to look into myself
and see something other than a hole staring back at me.
I want to know what it is like to be able to look in the mirror and smile,
and not immediately want to cry. It isn’t like I’d call myself depressed – I’d just call myself empty.
It’s like I’m watching a character;
like I’m staring around the room whilst these fingers
– weak slabs of meat and bone – type away.
It’s like I’m pushed on by the winds of habit;
like I’m driven forward by a sail and no storms touch me,
no cool waters make my progress all the easier –
no sunlight falls across my prow and
no rain makes my deck wet and dangerous.
I just go.
I just keep going, with no direction and no purpose and no stars overhead to light my way.
Whenever I think of happiness, I don’t even know that I would recognise it. I have slept with beautiful women and drank until I can’t see; I have smoked and walked and fought and knocked head-wracking painkillers down my throat.
I don’t want anything, except to be happy. And to be honest, I don’t think I’d even recognise it if I was happy, because happiness cannot be this hollow feeling in the back of my throat.
Happiness cannot be waking up with a bad taste in my soul. Happiness cannot be blinking in the sunlight and tightening my brow until I can see. Happiness cannot be hesitating in the shower and turning the heat up until my entire body feels like its burning and turning it up again. Happiness cannot be hovering over the disposable razors and cutting my skin without breaking the flesh until my arms sting but don’t bleed. Happiness cannot be drinking at 3:00 in the morning and waking up at 6:00 and wanting to do nothing more than drink again. Happiness cannot feel like a leash, holding me in place though I’m holding onto it myself.
Happiness cannot be this, this bloody, turgid life waiting for the next time I can go to sleep and, for a few hours, hate myself in dreams rather than life.
So, if you know how to be happy.
If you ever knew how to be happy.
If there’s something that makes you happy, let me know.
Because I want to be happy. But I don’t want to be happy, because I don’t even know what desire is. I don’t know what it feels like to want something so fervently that your heart races at the very idea. I know sex. I know drink. I know drugs. I know food. I know music.
I don’t know how to be happy.
I don’t even know if I want to be happy.
I don’t know how to want. But I know how to hope.
I hope that I’ll be happy one day.