Happiness is what we can find in a a silver spoon and while it teeters on the edge of spilling out, we know that we can grasp it so long as we try hard enough. I like happiness because it brings warmth and comfort. But happiness is a self-delusion if we think too much, and only a genuine state of mind if we don’t think at all.

In some sense yes, perhaps beauty is personified only by suffering, hurt and pain. So does that mean we choose to be either happy or beautiful? Some people spend all their lives wishing they were beautiful, letting their happiness leak away from their fingertips. Some people spend all their lives wishing they were happy, and the beauty drains out of their faces. It’s choosing between the lesser of two evils. If neither beauty nor happiness can bring us contentment, does that make ugliness and unhappiness a more feasible state to regress to?

Opportunity cost. If the opportunity cost of beauty is happiness, then which brings greater utility? According to the diminishing law of marginal utility, too much beauty will give us less utility, less happiness. We contemplate whether utility is happiness. If too much happiness brings us less utility, but utility = happiness, then we are faced with a paradox too complicated to decipher.

Moral of the story: life is a huge paradox. Then there’s probably no point living, because a paradox is a trap - the left will lead to the right, and the front will lead to the back, and ultimately we realise we have not moved one step from where we were standing in the beginning.

My happiness is derived from a state of alienation - but a serene tranquil type, not one of loneliness and desertion. Yet my happiness is not complete without you. There’s acid biting away at my insides with every pang, every yearn, every desire. It’s wrong to miss you, the voice in my head says, it’s wrong to try to cling on to every little bit of you I have left, especially what I did to you. I haven’t been meaning to miss you, truly.

Every time I tread the line, there’re invisible nylon threads pulling me back into the undisturbed state of solitude. It is this stable form that encompasses me into the vacuum and it is here that we can examine the science of love under our bell-jars - undisturbed and free from turbulence. But can I really treat my heart like a specimen, with the microscope light glaring it in the face? I cannot explain why I love you, but I do, I do, I do. Yet I do not have the right to, nor do I want to.

There’s no way being rational about this, I can feel myself falling and falling into a bottomless abyss and yet I consciously make no effort to hang onto the crevices. I do not wish to melodramatise this, but perhaps I think better in extremes. I’ve always attempted to arrange my life in straight lines, employ cost-benefit analysis for everything, but sometimes scientific and mathematical methods fall short of quantifying it.

I am not worth the love, the cherishing, the treasuring, simply because I am lacking in decision, in faith, and in trust - but the beauty of everything is that God is still there assigning value to the worthless.

As much as we forget people, they never becoming a passing cloud, much less this special person. I’ve always felt a connection from the very beginning, and was intrigued in the most bizarre way in the beginning. It is funny looking back on that, because I have forgotten. And yet when someone makes a conscious decision to leave your life, there’s nothing you can do about it. It just feels awfully empty, a huge part of yourself discarded in the storm outside, with the rain pelting you, the thunder shouting at you and the wind striking you into the very depth of your bones. I’ve been both the discarder and the discardee, and the former hurts more, really.

I would say “save me”, but I don’t think I want to. Happiness is really what you make of it, and if I have happiness in missing you and waiting for you, so be it.

When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him; and you are torn by the thought of the unhappiness and night you cast, by the mere fact of living, in the hearts you encounter.
- Albert Camus