Perceived Happiness

The reality of danger is one that most people overlook in the pursuit of perceived happiness.
  Or, better explained- Some are simply incapable of compound thought that leads to the discovery that happiness is in fact perceived. So the real danger that is overwhelmingly prolific, simply never strikes them as such.
  Happiness is conjured or wiped clean like so many sticky fingerprints in the width and breadth of a moment... All it takes is one moment to irrevocably change the course of our lives. Yet, as I look around, all I see is people trapped in the confines of their misconceived safety, which in no way leads to long term happiness.
 
  The path to discontent is generally well maintained, holes filled and smoothed over, but ends in an unexpected, quite tragic drop. One moment you are strolling along with ease, the next you find yourself falling into an unknown chasm. It surely was a pleasant road to get there too, but of course there were signs, and you ignored them for they were contradictory to the path.
  Happiness, that mythical creature, you see it in every cloud, every leaf caught on the wind, the laughter of a child, colors seem brighter, coffee smoother, and everything tastes sweeter... It is all perceived as such. It is how the mind (heart) processes various stimuli, then deciphers the code into usable snippets of emotion.        
  Problem is, that when perceived happiness is categorized as absolute safety, averting the inevitable disaster that follows is not only improbable, but impossible. The only option left, is to save face.

  Upon this discovery of what happiness is, I have begun a metamorphosis, though my wings are nowhere near ready to unfurl, taking flight in my new form seems the next step in exploration of this form, and in furthering the transcendence into the realization that again I will change, and again, and again to forms unknown.
  Understanding my perception of happiness, outside of the boxes that societal normality has demanded it be placed in, is equipping me for the winding, craggy path to it's peak. I may never reach that peak. Maybe it doesn't exist above the cover of clouds which obscure any possible view of the summit. Maybe I perceive something so vast that there is no peak, only the continual climb into endless immeasurable space. The views from up there are beautiful.
  Maybe, happiness is the climb, not the destination... that was the thought which began the transformation.

  In what context you choose to perceive (for it is a choice, your choice) happiness, and whatever it looks like from your spot along the path, keeping in mind that taking two steps forward, or one back will change that perspective, happiness can not be contained in any one box.
  A lesson hard learned through the past 10 years worth of heartache, now applied with the slightest twinge of bitterness, remorse, and loathsome regret that so much of my youth was lost to a perception only I was at liberty to change.
  To the people who see only my cynical side, this is no surprise, they wish to only see the bitterness in me, when in fact, it is that bitterness in so many other things which permits for appreciation of all that is sweet. Without bitterness, chocolate would have no appeal...
  To those of you who see only the ill in me, and wish to begrudge me my learning experiences (which is precisely what you do, when expressing that one should only see the "happy" side of things) because of how it colors their own perception- I say this;
    If you are so affected by the thoughts, ideals, moods, and motives of others that you feel the need to voice your discomfort, perhaps it is time you step back from yourself long enough to evaluate why that particular perspective is so hard to wrap your mind around. Understanding the why should not affect your own perception, unless it is as yet un-solidified. In which case, new information can not harm, it benefits the mind/body/spirit to expand. Life is not all unicorns shitting rainbows, and it should not be treated with an air of whimsy which would imply that it is.

  I refuse to look at the ill, and become disillusioned enough to will myself into believing that it could be worse- which is to say, it is not that bad. Some things simply can become no more intense than they presently are, without involving wiping clean your existence from this chunk of  rock.  They should be acknowledged, accepted, and then (when possible) ignored so that the here and now can still be lived in.
  Happiness is not a goal to be reached, it is in every moment, you simply have to decide to experience it. However, without the presence of discontent in one form or another, it truly can not ever be appreciated- People live stereotypical "Happy" lives, and never experience happiness, for the frame of reference which it takes to appreciate what they take as granted, simply does not exist without having been forged in the fires of tragedy.

Mulligan

  Mulligans are a funny thing... A funny word actually, comical as it rolls off tongue.
  I had to, just this evening, explain what a mulligan was. Because, apparently, it is not commonly used in the average american vocabulary? I dunno. I like to give people more credit than that, and ASSume that they understand the simple world I speak (or in this case, type).  Guess I do put too much faith in the public education system, seems it's lacking, and as adults, these women, these mothers do not feel the need/desire/motivation to educate their self any further. Never mind that they will be educating the next generation.

  Got off track, as per my usual derailing. Can't stay on track to save my life, or so it would seem.

  Where do I begin again? Ha! Mulligans... Mulligans... Have you ever wished for a mulligan, just one more chance to do over, without any strings, without any questions or regrets? I did. Until this evening.
  It dawned upon me, finally, and like a burning bale of hay falling atop me, pinning me, that if I had the opportunity to "fix" whatever may have gone awry, I would be pulling the thread on a close knit garment, unraveling everything that is of significance. And for what? The chance to knit it back together in a new form? One that is potentially even more likely not to fit the picture included with the instructions.
  Last night I had the opportunity to speak my piece (to my own peace), to let my mind go, and where it went was murky.
  Though, with mornings light, clarity dawned anew as well, and the unexpected continued to occur... Ah, and if I had used a mulligan, it never would have. I would not be at this place in my life, it would be incomprehensible to me, the ocean of emotions before me, and how I am to sail across it without being drawn under. My vessel is weathered, sails are in desperate need of repair. Yet afloat I stay, because I have my own history, which has been writ on my heart, and is an open book to read, a lesson to be drawn from. With a mulligan, all is lost.
 
 Emotions are a funny thing. Not so funny as "mulligan". No. But funny, queer, odd, strange, unsettling. Peering at the multifaceted face of emotion, holding it to the light, one moment a rainbow of incomparable beauty appears, the next you are face to face with a cut that should never have been made. It is awkward, strange, doesn't quite fit. But when you set the stone, you never see it. It is hidden in a golden rimmed setting.
  I am attempting to say, in so many words, that every emotion has a counter, ever beautiful thing has an ugly side as well. Most of the time it remains hidden by the facade, but in actuality, still exists. Only the maker sees it, knows of it, but it is there. In a finished work, the beauty is evaluated as flawless, but only the creator knows what it took to achieve it- and only the creator can truly appreciate it. With all of its flaws, for the masterful work that it appears to everyone else.
  I do not believe that the master would appreciate his creation were it not for the mistakes that were made in the process of perfection. Life, emotion, it all equates to the same... More of the same. Without the failures, we can not appreciate the successes.

  Call it irrational, call it infatuation, call it what you will. Love is a verb. Love is constantly moving, in action, ever changing, moving, moving, flowing fluidly through the mind, body, soul. Love is nothing, and everything, and something that can not be readily defined beyond the websters- It stands for so much, and for some, so little. Love can be redefined, and it has, and it will, and in the end it is never the same as it started out, and it is better for it.
  I'm permanently bruised, have been bludgeoned, beaten, but am better for the beating, for the knowing, for understanding what it is that keeps us moving. What it is that gifts us with the  very precarious thing called trust, with the not so simple capability to gift someone with this, and likewise be gifted with the assurances that are part and parcel to it. For everything implied, even if never clearly defined, for the very welcomed peace of mind.
  It is irrational, to those who have never been there. Sadly, some people never get to take this trip. They never venture to cross the boarders, to let go of the perception of safety- better, the misconception of safety, the delusions that lead us to this misconception.
   It is even more irrational to those who went there, and were absorbed into the delusion of safety. Love is anything but safe. It is volatile. It is dangerous, it strips us down to the bare minimum of who we are, our naked hearts exposed, broken, bloodied, torn, stitched together, and bandaged over. It makes us completely vulnerable. In the best, and the worst possible ways.
 
  When I was a wee one, not so many years ago, and believing I was mature, all grown, my own woman, who I was, solidified in my perception of self in such a way as only the very young are capable of... I loved.
  Little did I know then, that the self assured concepts of life, relationships, the way things ought to be, were more on point than I could have accredited myself with now. It was simple. It was pure. And it was real.
  Only upon loosing myself from the tiny box in which I have so long resided, have I begun to re-explore the fact of love. Of the ties that we make with people. Of my ideals regarding family, and what that looks like... Now I am bursting at the seams with the reality that it is in fact possible to see any or all of these things come to life, even when the conditions are not conducive. Dreams really do come true- I woke to one today.
 No fairytale is all unicorns shitting rainbows... There is always a wicked stepmother, an old witch, troll (surplus of those about the interwebs), a king with a superiority complex, a horrible beast. My story contains them all. Some of them are the same entity, others are imagined into that role, now that I am capable of processing the reality of what happened to me, and can compartmentalize it- Boxes are awesome!
  The incredible thing about fairy tales, is that you get to spin your own. Just takes a little fiber with which to use the wheel, and bind into thread...

  I lost myself again, I'm venting, is it evident?

  Another glass of chardonnay, and back to the redefinition of love... Here we go again, spinning, spinning, spinning. I pricked my finger, and now I sleep, and here he is to wake me. Could never happen. It's just a story. Or is it?
  In my case, it's the reality of what the years have dealt me. I forced myself into emotional slumber, for the day that maybe, just maybe, one chance, one shot, one moment in which I could live out the reality I so desired would be granted me. Unbelievably, it was.
  Irrational would not be the definition that I would give to a love that has run deeper than the deposits of self loathing regret which was spawned in the moments after catastrophic trauma. Irrational was the idea which maintained what little of me there was left to function in those conditions. Irrational was the justification I used not to run for my life after what I knew was good, was worthy, was wholesome, what was what I have so longed for all of these years...
  Perhaps in the simple purity of my youth I discovered what some are left to flounder on the deck in hopes of being scooped up into- Love. Actual. Simple. Active. Moving. Changing. Redefined.
  In reality, my analytical mind will not let it be so simple, I must dissect what it homogeneous.

  How can I rationalize the absolute fact that I am now experiencing the reality of love. The act of loving. The willingness of being in love with another individual?
  This is not easy for me to grasp, to label, to understand.
  In order for love to grow it must be given a wide birth, and in the same moment, it is the immersible vehicle you dive within, and are taken down, down, down into the belly of the beast.  How can I possibly rationalize this.
  Maybe it is irrational. Perhaps I am delusional. Maybe I simply refuse to see the dangers that are before me.

  What I like to believe more likely, is that I have in fact found the most precious of gems, and that it is being set. Though, as any precious gem... Does not necessarily remain in its setting.
  Fluidity is not conducive to a setting, which, in it's self  defies any sense of traditional definition... It, simply is, what it is.
  Now, to go 'shag and crash'....