My mother said that myth named happiness was just that, a myth. And I believed her, for each and every day of my life. I hated the world because I had been told to; I concluded that all good things must be a lie. The stars the moon, burnt my eyes, for they were eyes filled with fury, deflecting the beauty they offered me. The music of violins, and pianos caused black blood to pour from my ears. The taste of sweet and of sour wounded my mouth, and suspended my speech. These things choked my solemn soul and my callous heart. Until a day in which my mind was purged, in which my beliefs were overthrown, and I saw your unsullied face and pure eyes, and I felt your healing hands stroke my rigid skin, and you took me out for coffee and we sat in the rain, and you played me chords of heaven with your supple fingers, and you showed me the moon as we laid under the stars, and you wiped my tears from my cheeks as you kissed my coarse lips. I fought it mother, I swear I did, but the conquering sensation broke up through the ocean of resent and broke the surface into my world.
You lied mother. Happiness is real.
And now I may live. I can treasure the air I breathe and the soil on which I tread and relish the songs of birds at daybreak and bask in the glow of the beautiful sun and immerse myself into the caressing of piano keys and smile as I run my fingers across the surface of speckled eggs, and can grin at the lapsing waves of the ocean and take joy in walking barefoot along the street and giggle while drinking cold drinks on snowy winter days and blissfully run feathers across my neck and laugh at my mistakes, I can live and love you and be happy.