I never want to be too happy. Happiness is a dread it is achieved. Aristotle said that everything is a means to happiness, and that the goal of everything we do in life is to ultimately achieve happiness. Happiness is the end of all means, the absolute and objective goal of all human life. But I find anxiety in happiness; whenever I am happy, I feel guilty because something deep inside me keeps reminding me that I’m NOT supposed to be this happy.

 

Why? I’m not too sure myself. Perhaps it’s because there’s always a trade off for being happy.  I would find myself asking myself – What it is that I am missing or trading off by being happy? Sometimes the uncertainty of the trade offs that I made with myself and of the world by being too happy brings a sense of absurdity and fear into the feeling of happiness itself. Or maybe I feel guilty because despite my happiness, there is still endless misery, unhappiness, and despair in my life and the lives of others; and sometimes I feel as if I am happy it is at the expense of people and animals and things (including myself) that are miserable and wretched. So there you can see the irony and the paradox. Also, when I am happy, I feel like I’m on the top of the world. But when you are standing on the pinnacle, the only place left to go and will end up is DOWN. And there’s a certain sense of dreariness and anxiety that is coupled with this feeling of being-on-top-and-having-no-place-to-go-but-down.

 

Another reason why I fear happiness is due to the lack of potentialities it inhabits. When I am not happy, I have something to strive for – to BE happy.  With potentiality comes possibilities, dreams, and desires. When I am already happy, what’s there to strive and desire for?  When I’m already happy I find myself in a lazy state of mind where I stop trying to achieve something I’m driven to and is capable of achieving when I am not happy.  Unhappiness can be facticities and obsticles that I must overcome to acquire a higher state of being.  Also, I hate perfection as much as I hate imperfection. The most beautiful work of art is for me, a work that has glitches, holes, and areas of imperfection. Imperfection comes with desire imagination – the way our minds find pleasure in filling up the holes and fixing up the glitches in order to feed itself a fantasized and imagined version of perfection.  So a metaphorical and conceptual space must be created and maintained between the actual and the virtual – a distance/gap that cannot be closed, because once the distance is reduced, it annihilate upon itself and the desires it brings.  Imagination always creates the idealized perfection, and perfection in actuality usually is imperfect because it can hardly be equated with perfection formed in the mind.

 

Let me put it this way. Happiness for me is like seeing a naked girl. Whenever I make out with a girl or see a girl with clothes on I always imagine what she would look like nude. This nude image in my head is always perfect and idealized. But when she actually takes her clothes off, all the imperfections begin to penetrate my perfected mindset of her image – her nipples are too dark, the extra layer of fat on her belly that was hidden so well beneath her tights, the tiny folds on her ass, the excessiveness of her pubic hair and so on. And at that moment, a cognitive dissonance begins to unravel in my brain. There’s the idealized image that I generated in my mind of what she was SUPPOSED to look like naked (partially perfect), and then there’s the actualized image of her actual and physical self (partially imperfect). When these two opposing images collide (idealized nude – thesis + actualized nude – antithesis) it gives birth to a new image/being (synthesis) in a dialectic manner. How this image and being is presented in my mind and what it looks like is beyond the categorical structure of my consciousness, therefore it is incomprehensible. It certainly FEELS like a buzzing, anarchic, incoherent mess of confusion. And it is upon experiencing this jumbled up and cluttered version of reality versus fantasy that my penis begins to retrieve to the abstract space of indeterminacy – hovering in between the spaces of the real and the symbolic…unable to perform it’s much demanded duty… In short, the moment I become happy I become unhappy, and the moment I become unhappy, unhappiness turns back and unfolds on itself to give birth to happiness. So the only way for me to be happy is to be unhappy while progressively striving for the moving target of happiness that exists only in the virtual realm of abstraction and possibility.

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