The happiness monster

I think we all do that, don't we? Stick around, waiting for someone to come and get us rid of our loneliness. Our miserable, infinite loneliness. We feed ourselves with short glimpses of happiness. We live in our heads. We get high with people. We grow sick with people. We try to heal, but there is no medicine. The doctor says it's gonna last only a few months. It's a seasonal illness. We heal with time. He gives me little pills filled with time and says: "Take a while, and you'll be better". I take that while. I am not better.

I am sick with memories. I live in the past. Sometimes I imagine myself things and live in the future. I get high on past and future. I get high on time. I am sick with time. The present gives me nothing. Only a place to think. The present sticks with you, still, like a disease, like a cough that you can't get rid of, no matter how much you spit. So you swallow and you try not to move. Maybe, like this, it will go away. But it never goes away. It never goes away.

I try to forget in my sleep. I try to imagine in my present. I am a master at deceiving myself. I am a happiness master. I take it in like air, I am greedy, I am insatiable. Afterwards, I puke it all out. My face and hands are dirty from the lies I take. I never believe. But I always take. Until I can't take it anymore, and I am full of it, up to my neck, and my body can only explode from so much happiness, from so many lies. From so much time. Made-up time stuck inside of me. But it never fixes itself there. It comes out all the time. All the same, I am stubborn. In the morning I make myself even more. And maybe, someday, maybe this day, it will stay. My happiness. It will stay.