When will I ever get it right? That seems to be the dying mantra of my twenties. How do I find it? Is it a tangible, grab-able, legitimate thing? One day, once that thing is achieved, will I suddenly wake up delectably happy?
That’s the fear. That no matter what we do, nothing is ever enough. No matter who we befriend or who we help or how much we better ourselves and impress a great big enormous handprint of love into the heart of the universe, it will never amount to anything even remotely joyful.
Isn’t that the draw? Happiness? Some delicatessen fantasy world of rainbows and endless sunsets cascading down over glistening mountain tops that backdrop the glittering ocean where dolphins break the surface and trickle magical water droplets down into the sparkling sea?
Choose happiness. That’s one that really gets me. Like it’s a choice. As if you can simply jump up and say “Oh! That’s mine!” and then coddle it for all of eternity.
It isn’t unhappiness that warps us from feeling that impressive, all-over glee. I think it’s something more like, dissatisfaction. Or, perhaps, the poor choice of sitting still.
A favorite friend recently brought the subject up with me. A fellow intro/extrovert. A compassionate, social butterfly. We are the enigmas. We are the deep, the dark, the over-thinkers. We walk with one eye on the future and one on the past. We feel too deeply. We hurt too quickly. We trust too easily. We ache too long.
All of our feelings are tenfold. And we wear them deep in our hearts where no one can see them. Masked with smiles and good intentions, of which are genuine. And that’s the difference. That despite it all, we still hope to please. We still want to be loved.
I think I’d rather the melancholy over the choice to be jaded.
To be honest, I don’t think either of us is capable of the latter at all.