When I was younger, happiness meant
The rainbow, the scented flower picked from the plant
When I was still younger than that
Happiness meant a full belly, calm sleep, gurgling joy of talking to oneself and letting the cooing world go to hell
Since then, something seems to be the matter with the world
Can�t remember how happiness came to be a bitch
A stolen glance, a stolen thought, gentle breeze through recalcitrant hair, the feeling of suddenly possessing a body that the wind could caress, of the raindrops paving their way in the labyrinth of the newly acquired body parts giving rise to heretofore inexperienced dance of the senses, of the five elements.
There was no yearning for happiness then, the youth sat glumly smug chewing their misery and slowly building up toxic waste in the system
It was an awakening to join the force of evil, of love, lust and longing, of envy and sullen pride and anger.
In those days anger meant happiness, an expression of giving the world the finger.
It was fashionable to harbour ill-feelings of being victimized and wallow in self-pity or intoxication.
With your progenitors paying for the education to enable you to express your anger and keep it hopefully channelized, it was easier to vent off your frustrations and opinions on the world.
What stopped us then from seeking joys in killing and blood and gore was the fact that we were well fed and therefore had ardent opinions in college canteens.
Once in a while, happiness was wondering about one�s rightful place in the universe and questioning the galaxy in its entirety
Happiness definitely meant a song, a dance in the rain, a cup of tea and endless thoughts and unbridled sentiments, changing the world and all that.
These days commuting to and fro to the concrete horrors and drilling away into the time,
Losing the sense of possession of one�s limbs while going through the motions the most that happiness means is buying more luxury to work harder.
What has the world come to- when happiness is supposed to mean plastic cards.
Those were the days-when I could not count the zeroes.
The day zero stopped being nothing and started meaning millions, a note went off- key.
There are still times when I gift myself a song, a poem, empty words