All that they tell you
about happiness is
shit
it is not found under ancient trees
nor in the caves of lofty mountains
or on the banks of pious rivers
happiness is to be fished
from the filth of your
everyday life
It is to be found in
clean, sun-dried underwear
(and stained too);
in the release
of a painfully full bladder;
in a person
humming the song
you were trying hard
to recall;
in clean and cold
water to drink on a
hot summer afternoon;
in looking at a photograph
in which you’re grinning
into a camera, wide-eyed,
when you’d no clue
what a camera is;
in sleeping, knowing
that the alarm won’t
go off in the morning;
in waking, knowing that
there’s another hour
for alarm to go off;
in a condom
that fits your size
if not your ego’s;
in dreaming about
the house where you’d spent
your childhood;
in seeing someone you love succeed
and someone you hate fail;
in eating first mango of the
summer
and first gazak of the winter;
in finding a comfort in a
a tale that you’ve read/heard
hundreds of time and knowing
its details like you know all
the arbitrary shapes on the
cemented floor and walls
of your old house
that you dream about;
in the shade of gray clouds
that have wafted over
out of nowhere
on a scorching May afternoon;
in thinking about home
when at school/work.
happiness is not an illusion
grandness is
infinity is.
