Happiness is not leisure. Nor is it upward mobility or delivery sushi or blushing Instagram photos of every day life made to look more beautiful and interesting and more like art glowing from an Otterbox frame. Happiness is not a sparkling ring or a sparkling kitchen. It is not bragging rights. It is not sepia. It is not the perfect man or the perfect woman sitting on a teetering white pedestal. It is not butterscotch chips or snowglobe mornings, it is not Christmas, it is not the warm smell of bread baking in your own bread pan in your own oven in your own house. Happiness is none of these things.
Happiness is reality, and the acceptance of it. Knowing what you can change, knowing what you can not and driving with the map that this information draws for you.
This quest that I have been on- the search for the perfect place or the perfect feeling- is wholly, entirely useless. Useless. Perfection, as it is now, does not exist in the long term. Virtually nothing exists unchanging. The trick to sanity, I am finding, and to the truth of happiness, is that nothing will ever be exactly what we had hoped. Dreamers' eyes are closed, playing sweet, flawless movies projected on the insides of pink eyelids. The vice is not the dream. The vice is the alarm clock wake up, when you are not ready to give up what you have spent all this time seeing because now you have to see what is actually there. The vice is the distraction of the dream. The pursuit of it to the detriment of your current experience.
I have much more to say about this, but I also have wine and that shiny glass just took all my attention away from intellect.
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