At times I open up with some of the closest people in my life, and they wonder how I am so unhappy all the time. I don’t speak a word after that, and they assume I must be overly dramatic. They (and I) could not stand me. The next weeks that will come after are the last days I will spend with those people. It’s a years-worth routine. By just asking for my happiness I lose some more.
At times I ask myself why I am so unhappy all the time. It’s as if I grew up to get sucked into the endless cycle of daily torture and constant torment. Yet I cannot pinpoint as to how exactly I am this down. The fires that flow down my bloodstream must be having the longest winter.
Yet again, why do people ask me why I am so unhappy, when everyone else are not as well? If living is of constant happiness, then that is death. The struggles keep me sane and insane (mostly) and they drive me to live for another day, even if it hurts this much. The thrill of opening your doors and getting hurt some more. That is my motivation. If to live is to be happy, then living is dying as well.
Before they leave for long they always ask me one last time, why am I so unhappy all the time? I am in search for my happiness. I am living.