I want iced tea with lemon. I want Asian soups and rice. I want fire in baskets and blue balustrades, music made of silk and memories without nostalgia. I want effortless intoxication. I want the life of worlds unreal.
I wrote this last week. I like this passage; it makes me feel good as a writer. But maybe it’s this thinking here that has made me so unhappy.
I recently read an article on cracked.com about happiness. About how our definition of happiness was a relatively new invention, and how the emotion itself doesn’t really exist and is, therefore, impossible to achieve. In the the olden days, before sliced bread and flush toilets, people thought happiness meant that they were lucky, or virtuous, or God-fearing (a dangerous term if there ever was one). Now people think that “happiness” equates to “warm, fuzzy feeling of contentment and/or satisfaction”, and, what’s more, that you can do something to make yourself feel this way. Hmm.
“There’s a hook in that bait,” said the Breen to the Monican, “and here you still expect me to swallow it.” We do. And we do.