Where Happiness is Hidden
Is there happiness in the finite?
Of course not.
How could there be?
Like a cup too small for the ocean,
like a clock chasing its own hands,
like love letters
crumpling at the edges,
their ink fading into longing.
Happiness—
if we must name it—
lives in the spaces between words,
in the breath before speaking,
in the silence between arguments
where something endless seeps in.
It is not in holding tight,
but in letting go.
Not in keeping,
but in losing.
Not in the answer,
but in the ache of the question.
And if you still seek it,
do not look outside—
go inward.
Happiness is not in your title,
not in your house,
not in your body or mind.
It does not wait in grand achievements,
but in small, quiet moments—
in a thank you whispered to the breeze,
in sunlight warming your skin,
in water slipping through your fingers.
It is there—
in the unmeasured,
the unheld,
the undone.
In knowing who you are
beneath all the names
you have been given.
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