The Mirage of Happiness

Disordered Prose

I once thought happiness came in boxes, that it interlocked with pleasure and could be measured in laughs. Cheap emotions deluded me. For too long, I assumed that feeding my desires and eating my anger would eventually lead to eternal glee, as if a sweet spot existed, a destination. Mistakes occurred. Lessons were ignored. I sought solitude in repetition and let the cycle consume me. Panic was my default. Caught in a constant gasp, unable to escape my subconscious, I felt fate had entrapped me, a justification to pardon my behavior and sustain my invented dilemma. I succumbed to my wants and remained idle as much as possible. Reluctant to move yet wanting to change, I believed everything would work itself out. Surviving seemed like progress. Near-death experiences proved I had a heart. Oblivion became my special place, cozy and safe, as dopamine fogged the mirrored glass encasing my imploded dreams and tossed phosphorescent stars across fantasies, concealing my insanity. 

That reminds me: I have an idea for a story, not an idea, a sentence. Every time I add words to the sentence to shape the characters and mock a plot, the sentence disappears. The more words I add, the more the story disappoints me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make the sentence an anchor and force it to float. I have foolishly spent countless hours and deleted thousands of words rewriting various versions of a story birthed from this sentence:

Except for the time I told my father I loved him, I had yet to tell a real lie.

The narrator is not me. I am not him. Yet my failures as a son seem to creep beneath that sentence and redact all but love. My throat tightens, begging for water.

Sometimes, no matter how much you love somebody, when speaking to the person, your words feel thin and translucent, as if they form a flimsy curtain on which the past casts shadow puppets.

The other problem is my imagination. How I express myself and how I’m perceived are two different things. Everything circles back to perception. Everybody interprets words differently based on influences, the time of day, mood, judgments, etc. Though people might read the same paragraph and reach identical conclusions, they likely won’t feel the same way during and after reading it. Some judge words quicker than they skim them for something to contradict—a noun, a phrase, a tone, a misplaced comma—anything that enhances their emotions and makes them react. They want to react. Who doesn’t? How else would we know what to do? Without patience, though, we can’t let the words tumble in our minds long enough to process the information and develop meaning beyond our reactions.

Pleasure is a deceitful reaction.

Happiness is a kiss blown to happenstance, distant as a ship on a horizon, a blemish on a sunset seen from uneasy feet teetering on breakwater rocks. So close, warm, and provocative, the sun makes you feel you’re almost there, near enough to distort logic and belittle risks. Why not? See how sunny it is over there. 

Paddle.

Afraid of unhappiness, some people stalk its opposite while running from fear. Both enslave them. They believe feelings are thoughts and thoughts ideas. The mirage of happiness suffocates the cry for meaning.

To be constantly happy for your entire life would be unbearable and boring, I think. How would you even know you were happy?

What I’m trying to say is the pursuit of happiness is hogwash. Marketed lifestyles have fiddled with our emotions and misdirected us since birth, making our lives appear unlivable without more. The chase never catches the tail. We keep sprinting leftward and pretending the scenery changes. We laugh, giddy with distractions, tossing thoughts like napkins. Who needs ’em? Have a drink. Sit and watch, scroll, lose yourself. Smile.

Consumerism exploits the dreamers and keeps the schemers lavish yet moving in the same circle as the rest of us. How could anybody be happy trapped in a system facilitating an endless search for more? 

Evil is everywhere on earth, and one of its forms is happiness. (Fernando Pessoa)

During my early adolescence, my father had a Rambler, the color of Pepto Bismol. It looked great sitting in our garage but was often stored elsewhere. Where, I don’t know. It seemed to move around a lot for a car that didn’t run. We had many lawn ornaments with combustible engines, but none stood out like the Rambler and its creamy hot pink.

That memory amuses me, but if I think about it for too long, I become melancholic and long for a time that never existed. My memory is shot.

Comparisons make me list wishes.

How could anybody be happy without a cookie and a delusion? Happiness is hazardous, an affliction that eclipses other emotions and forces you to neglect what is real. It dulls the senses like whiskey, excites the mind like methamphetamine, and diminishes your inhibitions. 

Hard pass.

Because I’m different now, right?—sober and reflective, as opposed to incoherent and moronic. Sure, let’s say I have become, err . . . a better person—however you define such generalities. What motivated me to make those changes? If the old me chose to switch tracks and veer into sober insanity only to see his daughter and make life easier to navigate, to please others, out of pride, to live, then his self-interest taints my progress. 

That’s not a pimple on my forehead but a scarlet asterisk. 

I’ve had many conversations with myself about my reasons for sobriety and have yet to reach a definitive answer. It’s unlikely I ever will. I’ve made many declarations, yes, but I just spent twenty minutes deciding whether I should have another cup of coffee now or in twenty minutes. Then I made tea. 

I think I’m indifferent to happiness and hope to maintain that feeling (delusion?) until death steps on my toes. So why am I rambling about it? A motive lies somewhere in there. Happy people don’t usually blather about happiness, and people who say they’re against something often take that stance because the opposite seems unavailable to them—because they’ve learned it’s easier to hate than to change. 

My reason for yapping about happiness is simple: I needed something to write about. Then again, perhaps I’m only shaping my persona, giving you thoughts I wish were mine while living a life contrary to them. I’ve mentioned this before, I know. But pondering my intentions fascinates me, though answers are rare.

If I weren’t derivative, I’d be a magician.

Hold on. I just found a selfie stick that doubles as a broom and has a built-in Swiss Army knife: same-day shipping.

I don’t strive for happiness. Or I’m lazy. Either way, I don’t trust lofty feelings. Some of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made were while dumbed down by happiness: under the influence of pleasure and joy. Falling in love is the biggest culprit, a perfidious emotion that has turned me into an insufferable fool many times. I fall in love easily, too. That it could someday happen again terrifies me. It’s not as though women are lining up at my door, bouncing on toes, eagerly waiting to pet my repulsive mullet, so I think I’m safe. 

Phew. 

I don’t need the distraction. 

Who knows? I could publish this post and a few hours later be halfway to Vegas.

Yeah right. 

If I stand any chance of remaining indifferent and delusional till I reach my angle of repose, I must stay at my desk, alone, ignoring a stench whose source I’ve yet to locate. It might be me.

Do we learn or gain anything from being happy? 

Note to self: Tell Daughter to practice ambivalence. Why not? Learn. Tell her not to expect anything—ever. Don’t use the word fair: remove it from your vocabulary. Tell her that circumstantial happiness is not sustainable. Be cautious of how people and circumstances change your behavior. Self-reflect daily. Reflect on everything you perceive. Learn. Tell her the key to happiness is neglecting it. Don’t chase feelings or waterfalls. Seek contentment and call it peace. Don’t confuse contentment with complacency. Learn how to be alone. Understand the difference between lonely and alone. Learn how to be lonely. Appreciate solitude and make time for it. Do nothing often. Just stare off and relish boredom. Make art. Tell her to keep painting. Take wrong turns. Get lost. Avoid groups. Learn. Don’t expect happiness to protect you from unwanted feelings. Manage your feelings. If you allow your emotions to run rampant, you invite anarchy. Read. You don’t need a reason to be happy. Look within.

It’s snowing today, a Nor’easter after Easter. I may be the only person happy about this.

I once lay in the middle of a road, the yellow lines running up my spine, my arms stretched out, legs apart, my lips sealed. Rain prickled my face and tingled against my palms. The backs of my clothes were soaked through, wetting my shoulders, ass, and calves. A streetlight hovered above me like a surgeon’s lamp. The dark sky looked perforated, the stars like light from another side piercing through the darkness. Ahead were a few more streetlights. Some houses had sconces near their front doors, with lights left on. Behind me, the road was straight and dark. The neighborhood was quiet enough to produce an echo, typical for post-midnight in this suburban pocket of the city. I didn’t expect a car to arrive but wondered what a driver would do if one approached. Would the person stop or drive around me? Would anybody even notice a still body lying in the road? 

I wasn’t suicidal but had accepted the possibility of being hit and killed. Let death come, I thought. Yet I wanted to live. My life wasn’t terrible, though it seemed unnecessary. I wasn’t happy or unhappy, only aimless and deranged, hopeless. 

Why did I do this? Curiosity, I suppose. I wanted to feel something different and unordinary. To lay where I should not lay seemed intriguing, and the yellow lines splitting the lanes spoke to the divide within me. Oh, and I was drunk. 

I remember closing my eyes and flapping my arms against the road, my palms swiping the pavement’s wet grit. I listened intently. The rain was light enough not to make a sound. All I heard was the occasional drop of water plopping against a leaf. I could’ve been anywhere.

When I opened my eyes and stared at the sky, I imagined I was floating, rising above the power lines and the trees, ascending toward the stars, too lazy to reach, unable to do anything but feel. 

Times have changed. Now I only chase books. That’s not true. I also seek knowledge, enough money to survive, and achievement. I want to do something special besides being sober. I want to make my mother and daughter and her mother proud of me. Why? Wanting others to be proud of me seems selfish and egotistical. 

My actions can’t attain happiness, only express it.

I must remain focused and not get carried away, except when writing, which often whips me with passion and drives me mad, a lofty feeling not unlike chemical euphoria, but it’s as frustrating as it is joyful. The two cancel each other and keep me grounded. Yet I still attempt ascension, building stairs word by word, nailed together by punctuation. I leap from verb to verb, let nouns lead me, and limit prepositions because they slow progress. Time isn’t on my side. I keep my head up and reach when there’s nothing there, just for practice, ready but not. 

On second thought, I think I’ll tear down the stairs. Stardust is everywhere. I’ll reorder the words, manufacture stars, and create a constellation capable of expressing the inexpressible, but no words will define it.

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Thank you for reading. An enormous amount of time goes into writing these posts. I appreciate having the space to publish them and readers who enjoy them.

Paid subscriptions and contributions to the coffee can are a tremendous help, as are restacks.

Regardless of how you show your support, I’m grateful for your taking the time to read my work.

Also, I recently collaborated with

C. Elyse

on a post discussing Ralph Ellison and his novel Invisible Man. If you’re interested, you can read that post here.