Word Vomit

How can it be okay when I am the end of a book with no resolutions?

A bookmark left unmoved for decades, pages ripped halfway through.

I am run on sentences, the spotted patterns you see when you shut your eyes tight

so you don't have to look at yourself through the mirror.

Hopes and dreams manifested in bad jokes at bad times, scratches on chalkboards, and knuckles worn down to the bone.

I guess things don't have to be okay.

We can unfold pages and set them back straight (you can never un-smoke a cigarette) -

it'll never be the same, but it'll be close enough.

I have spent a lot of time (too much really)

teaching myself that happiness is not a state.

It is not a constant being.

Happiness is an emotion like any other - anger, sadness, tiredness, and the like.

Happiness is fleeting.

And that's okay.