I have everything.
I am the one who sees. I'm the one who hears.
I am the one who realizes how unhappy I could be.
Somewhere between waking and dreaming, I realized; how great little happiness is.
Happiness, although it may sound like a weak word, is infinite and unforgettable.
But who am I to talk about happiness? I'm just a miserable, lucky guy.
But still, I remember what happiness is;
Happiness is gentle and frequent like sunrise, but just as rare.
She is the song of plastic cups that spin like ballerinas bathed in the wind.
Happiness is the touch of warm wind on a starless night just before the storm.
Happiness is like a magnolia blossom.
Happiness is the smell of rain.
Happiness is her soft breasts.
Happiness comes. On her own. Happiness is grateful.
Happiness is a girl in black. The same one who, while crying, smiles at you at her father's funeral. Happiness is in her eyes.
Happiness is a girl in black bathed in golden wheat.
Happiness does not come in pairs.
Happiness is a reflection of you in the eyes of a beloved woman.
Luckily, happiness doesn’t go away as fast as it comes.
She is a stranger who shows you the way when you stand lost at the station.
Happiness is creepy and creeping.
Happiness is unwritten and unfinished.
Happiness is a lost and confused stranger scratching his head.
Happiness is not in order. She is awkward and messy.
She is the smell of the sweat of thousands of drunk, testosterone-charged, dancing fans.
She is just as much an old man sitting on a park bench as a child running after a ball.
Happiness is a sudden bite of a cold droplet behind your neck.
Happiness is looking into the void. A gaze at nothing. A look into the depths.
She is a bird that flies low towards you.
Happiness does not choose, she pees in public.
She just is.