Being happy is more complicated than one would think. Day in and day out, I confront the world with a smile. I swallow my problems and regurgitate rainbows and unicorns. I tend to those around me, doing my best to be the giggliest and most positive person I can be. Talking about it makes me want to sever my tongue and wrap a noose around my neck, but the actual act of caring and being compassionate is honestly the most rewarding feeling in the world. Maybe I only like to help others because it makes me feel good about myself. Perhaps if I continue to act as the big-hearted being, I can become the big-hearted being. It does make me happy when I can put a smile on another person’s face, so maybe I am a decent person. But, would a decent person feel the need to justify that they are a decent person? Stepping out of myself to help the next person seemed to fill the void for a while, but my brain seems to be wired to eternal despondency. Are true happiness and the state of nirvana indisputably attainable? I hope they are, but with my brain repeatedly polluting my thoughts with terrorizing visuals of reality, it becomes more challenging to be hopeful with each passing day. It has been a struggle within myself ever since I realized that life truly has no meaning. Life is merely a series of events that one experiences to make memories. We are here to exist and to reproduce. Everything is pointless once your mind starts going down that rabbit-hole vortex. Each person is so minuscule compared to the entire galaxy. So, what makes me significant? One day I hope to believe the positive things that others say about me, but for now, I will just admire [from afar] the excellency that shines in everyone else.
THE WEIRD ONE’S MASK UNRAVELS. 