happiness is

Happiness is I this what I wanted, writing for no one in particular a few readers here and a few readers there happiness is in what I cannot grasp. I'm thankful for not becoming what I wanted to be a falsehood, I tell myself, not being a painter of Algarvian nature, not being the talk of the town an easy person to talk to, invited to posh parties I had a cafe, spent most of my time in the kitchen hiding away from people In Chester, I trained as an actor but never entered the stage ran away to the sea, which turned out to be my luck met a beautiful girl in Honduras Had I not fled, I would never have met this girl, who lives in my memory, the acting dream was an introverted fantasy The girl is a jewel in my cashless memory bank Discontent has much going for it contentment means to be satisfied and not wanting more Sweet is my melancholy has sustained and kept my restless soul to look under stones and find what I'm looking for, perhaps over the next mountain, near a lake where undead anglers float in silky silt. I will steal their boat to where the river ends and see my fame glow in colored light for no reason at all, I will sing Jerusalem will I then be happy or wish I were a painter