If I said I were happy, it would be a lie. Yet unhappiness is not something pervasive to my identity. Methinks questioning happiness is an unhappiness mark--free souls are unaware of self, and happy souls must be free.
And yet I am not less than happy, but why do I ask? It’s as if the jigsaw puzzle is missing the final piece—the piece that holds the sheen of the eye, or the haze. And so I look for this piece, but the puzzle edges are transparent and shifting--what am I looking for?
The world turns under it’s own power; why am I pushing it?
Perhaps the pieces fall where they wish, and the answer is release, relinquishing illusions of grandeur in control.