Of all our yearnings the one that adamantly denies being quenched definitely is that of the elusive happiness. We try to believe, and succeed to deceive, that the levers our of satisfaction are controlled by our hands, but the measures of happiness are so skewed by collective perceptions that none of our selfish endeavours ever yields an endorphin harvest big enough to last in the barrage of constantly refilled unjust expectations.

We only have one place to go then. The soft, squishy haven of our past. Tomorrow bound time has a knack for smearing a sepia-tinted glory on yesterday; even on the grime.

At least it’s over, at least it happened. At least we felt something new, at least we have something to look back at - everyone does. Is our mental make up aligned to send us on an unending scavenger hunt of worldly pleasures? Is it a subconscious submission to the realization of our insignificance in the grand emotionless cosmic scheme? If not, then are not the one’s who have had more instances of being drenched in happiness shower more successful than the others? How this happiness comes about should be a moot point given how even our bodies cannot differentiate between a fake and genuine laughter.

Only when you start to force yourself onto your life that the definition of ecstasy gets customized. The cost of individuality is sleepless night waiting for ideas to come, unfinished projects, unwritten stories and unlived lives.

…but it’s worth the wait.