“There is no happiness to life”, she said,

Her arms flailing in the air.

The thought of living didn’t please her,

The idea of going through another day, unsatisfying.

 

The joy of living has thus become a chore,

Moments fleet by without interruption.

She but stands still as the world moves by,

People in wholesome laughter and chatter.

 

She is but untouched by these fleeting illusions,

Yes, happiness is one such fleeting illusions.

Moments so far back in memory,

She struggles to remember, the last time she was truly happy.

 

She wanted to feel all these things,

The shortcomings of life, these simple pleasures.

No one ever seeks to live a life so tortured,

So marred by sadness and unwarranted pain.

 

“I want to feel the breeze”, she said,

“I want to feel the wind crash against the contours of my skin.

Feel the joy of thus being alive.”

But she looked down at her hands, the scars left behind,

Drove her to tears.

 

She quietly retreated to her solemn life,

She returned to the gutters of routine, the sewers of chore.

Maybe happiness is overrated,

Maybe happiness is nothing but distractions to the misery that is life.

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