Happiness

This has become something I’ve been thinking more and more about, lately. It’s past midnight, and I’m typing away in this journal of a sort. I’m tired, but still up. Part of me feels like cracking a beer and continuing to type; part of me feels like just calling it a night. I’m acutely aware of the fact that I need to get up tomorrow morning, and go to work. I’m also very aware of those tasks that await me tomorrow, the ones who will be requiring my time and attention.

I haven’t written a poem in what feels like two weeks.

Where am I deriving my happiness from? My computer? My blog? My words? My office? Where are people in this list? Am I looking for tangibles, like a house? A published book? Seems like I’ve got a lot of questions, and no answers just yet.

It seems that these big questions rear their heads at late hours. When drinking with friends, the heavy topics step forth in the wee hours of the night. All the yelling and screaming happens earlier in the evening, and it’s only late that the voices become hushed, the dancing replaced with a somber nodding.

I am not drunk. I am not with friends. I’m sitting at home alone, and it feels like these big questions are gathering around my desk, leaning over my shoulder and reading what I’m typing onto the screen. It’s getting late and, as a result, I’m doing what any sensible person would do at this point.

I’m going to sleep.