Happy.
To me, this word is beautiful but fragile.
Like a very rare flower, that could wither in your hands.
I guess that’s the mistake of many people.
When they find that flower, they puck it because they think in this way
they could keep it forever, keep it alive.
Instead, they should look at it and adore it.
But we are unable to do that.
We are ruining our own happiness.
At least that’s what I have been doing all my life.
And you know, happiness is not unlimited.
At least for people like me, after a few times, a few opportunities.
There is nothing left.
There is nothing left, because you ****** up the first times.
And then your life is like a garden without flowers.
Without color and butterflies.
Only the tall, cold trees.
Gloomy.
A life in the twilight.
And you are getting jealous at the people, whose garden is full of flowers.
Everyone around me was happy, while I was miserable.
But nobody knew, and I wanted to be happy, too…
That’s one thing that made it worse.
The desire to be happy, but with the disability.
And when a desire is not satisfied, it gets stronger and stronger.
Happy. That was my desire.
And it still is.
And it will forever be.
And so I wander around in my flowerless garden.
Between the tall, cold trees, in the creeping shadows.
For the rest of my life.
Like a widow, who lost her man too early.
Covered in black.
Faceless.
Shapeless.
Fading away, as the years go by.
Will the happy people remember me?
I don’t think so.
And if they do,
only as Joyce.
That Joyce, who was denied happiness.