There are things one inevitably doubts: self, music, durability, and pain. Not that such doubt determines one’s sensibility, but rather one’s cynicism. I could be blinded by rose-tinted glasses beyond my first nature of scrutiny, but doubt now serves a distant purpose of safety; a measure of last resort I intend to keep irreparable. Knowing that I will regret this outlook by the time I’m 45 and stretch marks have conquered my body, I am now too drunk on Ramadanic sugary drinks to act of age, or maybe I have finally come to the point where I see no use in bitterness and self-reproach for the way(s) my mother raised me, the point commonly known as “happiness.”
A too hasty proclamation? Indeed. What’s wrong with haste, anyway? Fires up and wanes away, yes. Could drive you into a pit of hungry crocodiles, also yes. But what does it matter that you wane away if you get to ignite over, and over, and over again? (There’s also a semi-poetic answer to the crocodiles but all the interpretations lead to forbidden territories, and I want to spare you the image.)
Those who are happy are fools, not for their own fault but for a peripheral perspective of a shared reality revealed only to them in the fancy, pink glasses; much like those who actually read the book when everyone else watched the film. The details are too augmented in their vision that they can’t find a way out of the frame, not that they’re complaining, they’re merely living the story on loop.