Happiness.

There's a sort of happiness that just comes. A brilliant sunshine that shines and shines and stays of it's own accord. You needn't try, you needn't strive, you don't even have to think about it. Every thought is simply happy, every heart beat the rhythm of a song almost spilling out of you. (Which outbursts you only pacify by contenting yourself with smiling.)

There's a sort of happiness that is well-earned. Worked-for and well-earned. When life seems dull or it's sort of easy to fall under the spell of mediocrity and a boring disposition. This happiness is the flower that blooms in spite of such things. blossoming out of the chosen smile, the happy things you make out of life and the stars your own hands embroider above your path.

I find neither of these now. Only a fickle happiness that finds me and looses me as it will. I am at the mercy of it's whims. Laughter and fun my companions for one moment, maybe an hour. Heart ache and tears my companions the next. I cannot predict. I cannot understand. I only know when you, my friend happiness, let go a moment... I fall with no power to pick myself up. My capricious saviour from my empty life; when you leave my heart I have nothing left.

Joy is a better thing than happiness, granted. But joy cannot replace the levity which happiness brings.

Happiness, perhaps someday you will bring back your consistent sunshine.

I miss you.