Happiness is having that perfect,
flawless me that I always desire,
you know, a skin as flat as a pancake,
small dots on the face which they like to call freckles, shiny hair and
big round eyes which don't need no mascara.
I saw that one girl who looked like she'd drive any cowboy like a bronco, playing rhapsodies on her little walkman in the field last evening.
I envied her.
She had a fine layer of
an expensive french perfume around her neck and an aura of a Nemesis.
She was impeccable,
with long dark hair and
she scared many of the guys away with the intensity in her stare.
Her accent made every word a masterpiece,
and her style strict Parisian.
She did it all like we could do it,
but she did it differently.
And she could dance.
She was everything I couldn't be.
And had a skin I could never have.
Happiness is also being confident.
Some days, I want to walk the streets with a credence in my steps,
walk through all the miseries of the past,
that spectred below the feet without thinking how it feels to not feel bad about being too skinny, too fat, too tall and too short or anything which makes me inferior.
I want to look up without pleating my skirt continuously in a fright or tucking the strands of my rough, brown hair behind my ears in hesitation while standing up on that stage infront of the roaring crowd.
And that girl I was talking about, had it all for I can never imagine myself humming and tapping my boots on the Dire Straits on a crowded commute without the fear of being judged.
She had feathers on her ankles which flew and fluttered and paved ways for her soul in a very charming way.
I also realised that happiness for me, is an illusion. Like, you see, I want to laugh and yet seem like slow wind chimes, both in sound and sways.
And it's uncanny,
but I'd also want someone to play ballads and orchestra about the tiny,
little moles on my back and
capture my sadness with
the ink of a pen like people
were doing for her.
My definition of happiness is an illusion- everything I cannot have.
Perfect skin, perfect body,
confidence and a lover
who would do all kinds of
poetic justice to me.
And that girl with crimson eyes,
dancing on Sultans of Wing with .all her admirers had something very extraordinary.
She set the mood right and
labelled swears which ran red like blood
from the cut Bordeaux
and her cheeks burned brighter in the sun.
Almost when I was walking away, sighing, I saw she took off her wig and
her lover gifted her bald head
a kiss which lit up all the symphonies
of her face sound more pleasant.
She walked away with her sick body and sick, feather ankled feet and I stood there, again measuring how happy I was.
You see, happiness for me, is an illusion.