I’m not a very happy person, but for the most part, I try to be. I try to find joy in little things, in big things, hidden away in dark corners and cracks in the floors and walls.
Happiness is like that person you really like but they almost seem to avoid you and you can’t tell if it’s in your head or they are actually avoiding you but then every once in a while they talk to you and it feels great (as it always does to be acknowledged by those you like) and then they go back to ignoring you (but are they really? Is it in your head?)
I try to be happy. I try to be happy on days when I wear my favourite shirt to school, or when someone I don’t usually talk to talks to me, or when I find a new pin for my bag pack, or when my dad offers to buy me ice cream, or when my sister laughs at my terrible jokes.
I put stickers on my notebooks even though I’m supposed to be far too old for that because they make me feel happy. I pierce my skin because the rings I put in them make me feel happy. I drink liquids that burn my throat because the feeling afterwards makes me feel happy. I iron patches onto my bag pack because it makes me feel happy. I put flowers in a glass bottle on my desk because it makes me feel happy.
I do all these things to make me feel happy.
Why am I not happy?
