I want to be happy. I say. We say. But I find myself grasping for paper. So delicate but not more then the memories that fade away. We put a price to the paper. The paper's all we want. My mind grows weak and my heart remains soft. They say that those with paper find happiness better, easier. While those without struggle and nevertheless, linger. On this unfathomable material that means nothing untouched. What matters are the souls that live. We love too little, and want too much. We take for granted, what we already have. I live in the future, thinking it's stressful and sad. I'm already grateful, of what I've been given. Happiness is not the things that I live in. Or what I've bought, what I've taken. Humans are beaten and broken. And it's funny how we turn to paper, to try to hold us up. But you are my happiness. You are more than enough.