Happiness Junkie

Do you ever think about what makes other people happy? How do other people experience joy? What does it feel like to walk in another person’s distinct kind of ecstasy? And what are the varying degrees of feeling? How can I slip into someone's plastic existence to know their bliss? What if it feels like hot water running over a hand in a plastic glove? What if some people have never felt bliss? Or maybe some pour souls have just never felt as blissful as you have. How lucky you are. They’ve never even reached the climax of feeling. Static intensity of delight, zapping goosebumps onto your neck. How you’ve taken those pin pricks of pleasure for granted. Or maybe you became an addict. A fiend for climbing higher and higher. Your threshold increased. Now a dusting of dopamine won’t do it for you. Nothing can ever satisfy your standards for feeling the best. Who wouldn’t want to feel the best at all times? Not you. But maybe the complacent people don’t have that problem. They aren’t capable of knowing that problem. They walk into the Italian Deli at 8:30. 50% off after 8. Yessss, the first spike of neurotransmitters. And Tony with the mustache hands them a wrapped up cheese pizza. You can almost envision their pupils dilating while they thank the cashier with a closed grin, careful to keep drool from escaping from their lips. Automatic salvation. Each synapse is about to burst. Overflow with dopamine. And once these simple angels close their car door in the Deli parking lot, they can’t restrain themselves any longer. They dig in. Happy as hell. And then they say to themselves, in their uncluttered brains, "that was an Experiment with elixirs and dangerous conversation." Go on a trip to the coast and run your hands through the hair of the hottest guy at the beach bar. Sand like glitter through loose blonde curls. Keep his gaze in a teasing hold just for your pleasure. You’ve got him. A thumb against his bottom lip as a promised lie. And leave like the conceited son of a bitch you are. One glance over your shoulder before you’re out the door should do it. Anticipation bubbling over. He follows you like a lamb. Oh baby, now the chemicals are buzzing. How we all get off over being wanted. Pursued. How special we feel when people can’t let us go. Ego trips can be a nice ride for a while. Forever, even. Most people will always be satisfied with a nice stroke of the Ego. Chasing material possessions for recognition and climbing social ladders to acquire more treasures to add to the Self Fortress. If you want it, you need it and you’ll strip away whoever who’s got it. A nice vicious spiral. But for the cursed few, ego trips only whet the synapses for a while. That is, until they realize that they are only ego trips. The facade lifts and you realize what you were always chasing was never real. You stop at a red light on Ocean Drive in your Mercedes and your perfectly manicured hands are shaking. You lift them up in front of your face. Tail light beams are bouncing off of your diamond bracelet sending miniature rainbows around the car interior. Something brings you out of the trance. You’re not happy. Not only are you not happy, you can’t remember what it feels like to be happy. You’ve been stuck in the loop and entangled in the game for too long. The tailored precision of the best that life has to offer at your fingertips means nothing to you. Imagine that. A perfect life of emptiness. If you’re going to wake up at all, dear, I hope it happens sooner rather than later. But a tiny fragment of me thinks it would be easier to stay asleep till its over for good, floating in an ephemeral dream world that you govern. How nice it is when you do not know the truth. How different life is with eyes wide open.