There are memories etched
in the pixels of nostalgia stained photographs
that these Braille lusting fingertips have left for generations to come,
a cotton candy universe slowly building itself up,
spreading out of the corners,
like an algae or a weed waiting to be noticed,
to be talked about,
to be remembered with a distant look in the eyes.
Do you ever wonder why soap bubble beards and overflowing bathtubs
make for more exciting stories than carnivals?
Why puddle jumping and raindrops
have broader smiles than oceans and beach walks?

Happiness does not like to call itself a guest,
a once a year formality limited to the number of days reality can be escaped.
Instead, it considers itself the best friend that can walk in unannounced,
with its very own secret door knock,
and trapdoor entrance,
and welcomes itself home.
Because happiness is not made of stagnant waters
waiting in a corner for you to help it flow around,
not made of pots and plants,
that’ll only reap what you sow.
Rather, happiness is the wind,
or the clouds,
or the sky,
always an inch away from your smile,
always a mile away from the storm.


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