And then I ask: what is happiness?
I dwell in the slums, where strife and hunger greet every waking spirit.
The only hope for a successful day is the blessing of bread and water.
Sweat mixed with blood, and the scourge of words from enthroned masters, do not matter—
if they can offer cheap coins enough to buy bread and keep children fed for survival.
And then I wonder…
Where do they find the strength to come home wearing a smile for their families?
I have now ascended into the space of a man, and now — I see how my father bows to the commands of an ill-mannered punk, just to keep my glutton belly fed.
I now understand why he lacks the strength to linger with us in casual jokes,
but instead retires quietly to bed.
I see my neighbours’ children, and my younger siblings, demanding a life their parents could never afford in ten lifetimes.
And I see my younger self in them—
oblivious to price and sacrifice.
And then I ask again: what is happiness?
Of course, it is a thing to be argued.
But I would say happiness is the thrill of a past forgotten, a future unknown,
and the blessing of ever-present bread—
enough to obscure the mind from thinking beyond the scorched limits of the present.
It is the forgetfulness of reality when the belly is satisfied,
and the borrowed strength to endure the suffering of a new day.