like most silent sicknesses,
creeps in through the cracks that
sleep
love
contentment
time
failed to fill.
The most believable of lies,
unhappiness is not an emotion.
It's a credible source.
A voice I can't turn down.
An unregistered pain,
undetected
until it gathers in corners--
never collecting dust,
but rather growing,
multiplying,
preparing for it's return.
It convinces me I am not enough.
It plants the option to give up.
It moves in, leaves a mess, refuses to change,
It ignores what I work hardest for:
My body.
My job.
My relationships.
My stability.
And denies any chance to meet Satisfaction.
For every good thing that happens,
I find 17 more that haven't.
The moment I step towards peace,
I retreat to nerves.
It is more than just my nature to live unsettled,
confusing drive for fear--
blurring any difference between
incomplacency and ungratefulness.
It beats in my blood:
the awareness that
nothing
lasts forever and
everything
will turn to gone.
Whether it
walks
runs
hides
away,
the time it will last severely reduces
the moment
I give in to its charm.
Unhappiness has lived here far too long.
