Of Crystals.

Come to think of it, literature is nothing but wonderful custom-crafted lies that people use to escape from or into their own aura, depending on how they carry themselves through life. And life is nothing but a chosen distraction from all the time we have in the world that otherwise would only be the death of us.

And once every blue moon you come across a person whose ability to be happy exceeds their own as well as life's shortcomings. And you realize that they're the ones who've been doing life right all along. Not by being great, intelligent or successful, but happy. Those who are genuinely amused by how a little uncircumstancial event might have taken an unexpected turn, and that idiotic happiness is the reason for their light-hearted bouncing through life, without the needless stress and grief that weighs the soul down, sometimes so much that you begin to resent everyone who’s not wandered off of the yellow brick road. But what you don’t realize is that you only resent yourself for not having that ability, and you’re projecting it onto others, whose only fault was that they were enjoying their lives.

Little by little, you’d stopped doing the things that make you happy, and have been reduced into seeking constant affirmations of your worthiness from others due to lack of regular confirmations coming from within. It’s not their fault that they haven’t stopped trying when you have, it’s your fault for stopping without valid reason. For in what better purpose could hard work be harnessed than your own happiness? After all, you’re the one living with yourself, you might as well be pleasant. If not, then you’re probably thinking along the analogy of a married couple. You’re married to yourself, what happiness does it bring you if you’ve filed for an annulment?

Think of how many hours one may be willing to put into a paper, for the sole purpose of tending to their GPA, how much more important do you think your happiness is? It is after all the GPA that counts. That rigorous meticulous work you put into the latter is a lot more long lasting and relished than the former, even though sometimes, the former will lead to the latter, in the form of little deposits into your personal bank account. Another deposit may be a good book, yet another a careful workout. For what other reason would you do something if not for your own happiness?

If an emotion like pure hate and resentment that is energy-consuming could be replaced by another emotion like happiness that is energy-producing, with little effort being that you work on the things that make you a better version of yourself, then why on earth wouldn’t you take it? Masochism is a morphed form of happiness for the crippled of soul. If you’re able-bodied, why park where the wheelchair’s supposed to?

The little things matter, and with enough little crystals you’ll cast an expanse hue on every other department. If it doesn’t work, you could always go back to your delusions of martyrdom, they’ll be waiting right where you left them, in a pile of shards that flake everything they touch.

Why, do you ask? Because what else have you got to lose?

‘Like the terrestrial crust of the earth, which is proportionately ten times thinner than an eggshell, the skin of the soul is a miracle of mutual pressures.’ -A. Carson