I wish happiness came in the form of Christian LaCroix couture or Loboutin heels. Or Manolo Blahniks. Or a hug. Or in the form of an orange cranberry muffin.
No one can say that they’re truly happy. Happiness is a delusion we will ourselves to believe in. Even unhappiness is just a state of mind we choose to be in. We’re too obsessed trying to be either one but we forget that it’s just about being content with what you have and the way you have it, or not. What makes you happy may not make you feel full, it’s more of a temporary high that we like to indulge in. Can anyone be happy or unhappy every second or hour of the day? I don’t think so – that just makes you deranged or lifeless.
No amount of Prozac’s going to help change that, kid.
When you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told you I wasn’t done growing up just yet. Or I’ve already grown up but I just missed that part of enlightenment. I don’t want to grow up because I like the way things are and I don’t want the excess baggage that comes with age. I’ve already got too much shit still unpacked cos it won’t fit into my current baggage.
I want to be anonymous in another place.
I want to be a hermit – wonder what that’d be like?