I used to think that being happy was the ultimate. I pursued happiness like an addict. I read every self-help book written, went to seminars, turned to psychiatry, tried food, drugs, and alcohol, got into untimely relationships, got into weird hobbies, studied all kinde of religions and ideologies…high after unimaginable high of stuff, trying to work myself into “happy.”
Happy is a lie that sucks you dry from always having to do something. Happy carries the weight of outside forces to make it go. Heck, if my so-called smart self had actually taken time to study the word itself I would have found the root of the word to say just that: hap means “chance” (albeit with an implied good fortune). So happy is a 1st cousin of hapless, happenstance, haphazard, mishap, and happen. In order for you to be happy, something has to occur. And it is by this definition that I became indefatigable, searching every option and opportunity to get happy.
It took me a long time to realize that what I really wanted was peace.
And that’s where most of us would end up, too, if we stopped rootibg around looking for trouffles in the mud.