The Meat of Happiness

I ponder on what sublimity happiness holds. One that truly lasts a lifetime, if not longer. Such miracles are beyond my feeble reach. No matter how much I desire such a thing it always escapes me like a crafty mouse to a trap. What must one do to obtain this grace? Perhaps it is something that will forever be too much of a good thing for me. Am I a being that is beneath the blessings of God? What sins have I committed to be omitted from the Heavens? I equate the extended form of happiness to the meat of a prime rib. One grilled and smothered in barbecue sauce. In my life, I am only given the scraps of its surface, while I am forced to watch the ones that eat from it devour it down to the marrow. To even suck on the bones of such a thing would make this life all the more worthwhile. Just a bite from the source would do. All I ask is for a true glimpse of happiness, but instead, I am afforded false, brief clips of a feature film. To eat is to experience! I can see it in the eyes of those that eat from the meat of happiness.

They live out S-Tier films and are flooded with serotonin. While I, on the other hand, am without any of the happy hormone. Perhaps I’ve lost the one slab of it I had long ago. Or maybe the ivermectin I call life saw it as a harmful thing and exterminated it from my body. Whatever happened to it, I suppose, is of little concern and consequence to me now. My stomach rumbles and shakes the Earth with a fierce determination to one day taste happiness, and engulf itself in its miraculous nature forevermore. I ask you to wait, O’ Stomach, for I fear you may eternally be starved. That in which I must ask for your forgiveness because I lack the competence to satiate your hunger. Therefore, I instead ask that you do away with me. That way we can both be at peace, even if it means that we will have lived our twenty-something years never knowing what the meat of happiness truly tasted like.

All we were afforded were scraps, as stated before. Momentary false hopes. They came in the form of processed meat in the guise of video games, basketball, poetry, family, friends, and love. All of which only last for a while. When the television goes dark, the basketball flattens, the poems are erased, my family goes to their homes, my friends forget about me, and when love scars me with a ferocity unknown beforehand I am left to the bleak and eerie despair of reality. The latter of which I am the most familiar with, even if I am not fond of its meat. It is of low quality and rubbery texture. Overcooked and undercooked at the same time. Such a foul concoction, if I may. Yet, it is the only thing I have ever received in full. So, I suppose it is only proper for me to be appreciative of its company and willingness to be devoured by an underserving creature such as myself. Maybe I should even count myself lucky to have been afforded even this much. It only took the loss of all the false hopes to ascertain this great displeasurable pleasure.

But still, I yearn for more than what it could ever hope to provide. It is not enough! I must have more! Hasten to me! Hasten to me, O’ Prime Rib of Happiness! What hath I not yet done to be worthy of you? Have my sacrifices in life not been sufficient? Or perhaps you desire more before I am to hold you in my belly… I think it best to survey the true meaning of what you even are. For example, maybe you could be something that is, in truth, a curse. Yes. It sounds so appropriate. “The Curse of Happiness.” Or even “The Accursed Veil of a Smile.” Yes, indeed! It is too clear to me now. Though I still beg for you, I can now see that I have you not because you would stain my skin and spoil my organs. It only is sensible as to why I have been sustained by misery for so long, and still have been just as vital as those that eat from your bones. I can see now that you are but a carcass in the wastelands of a barren continent. One that has been soaked in the rays of the venomous sun. Perhaps the comfort of misery is the vaccine for such a toxin.

Happiness is not all it’s made to be anyway. Though those that eat from it may be “happy,” they will never be blessed enough to know reality. They live in an ideal world devoid of truth. A dream of sorts. One that never ends even if they plead with God for it to. Yes. I shan’t hope for that form of misery. The one I have is all I could hope to bear. I should sing a psalm for those that are bound to such an unfortunate fate. If only I had a singing voice to do so. I shall leave those fat, lummox ogres to gorge on that curse for as long as they see fit to do so. I shall sit here in my desperate corner with my scraps and processed meat of bleak despair and hopelessness. I feel truly honored to have been blessedly cursed with this instead of that. Maybe I will even sleep better tonight knowing that I have found the answer as to why that prime rib had never chosen me to dine from its flesh. The visions of hope are skewed by the prosperity of misfortune.