Happy Endings
(crossposted)
There are five types of people in the world and they are normally distributed in a bell shape of dreaming. At the left end of the curve there are the few, the rare that are happy with an ordinary life. They are content with paying the bills, raising a family, taking the joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day. Right above them, a bit more common, are the people who know down deep inside them that there is something missing but they dare not complain, dare not strive or even hope for something more. Perhaps they think they do not deserve anything more. Perhaps they figure it is useless to dream. The suppressed dissatisfaction burns inside them a hole. And so they appear happy with their ordinary life, content with paying the bills, raising a family, trying to take joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day, until they blast out their brains or massacre the masses.
Slightly on the right of the general public that will be shortly discussed, are the fewer who find it a bit difficult to breathe right. They feel the tingles at the tip of their fingers as if things are constantly slipping away. So they allow themselves a single, or a single and a half dream to indulge in. They wait until they're 40 or 50 to marry the absolute perfect one or spend every heavy breath reaching the top at work. And they plug it, that unstoppable rush and gush of aspirations, in one or two problem spots where the wall nearly cracked, and go about their lives nearly peacefully. And finally, right above them sit the lucky ones. Few and rare like the ones at the other far end, and equally enviable are those who know that it's not enough, and choose to not settle for a minute, not by an inch, not through the ridicule or difficulty, not for loneliness or failure. They want more and they either get it, or spend their lives trying to.
The masses, the right down smack middle of the pack people, are those who know they want more. That's me. I want more out of life. More than waking up in the morning and going to a job that pays the bills. More than marrying someone who is rather attractive, rather clever, makes me laugh now and then, and gets along with me. I want more than occasionally having a drink with a friend or going to a movie and thus filling up my quota of happiness for the month. More than going to school to put a fancy piece of paper on the wall to say I've done something substantial with my life. I am the person who doesn't like coffee, and the sun gives me a headache. And I want more. And the reason we are the masses, the reason we keep living in this insatiable thirst never asking for a glass of water is paradoxically the very fact that we are the masses. I look to my left and there are people content with their way of living, and people who appear to be content with their way of living, and amongst me are the people who may not be content but live as if they were content, and to my right are the people who are content because they gave in to one bit of happiness.
And I feel inadequate. If everyone is seemingly satisfied, why should I ask for more? Those who did are no longer in sight, they are long gone, the stuff of legends or tabloids, nothing you can grasp or strive to. So when I should dare mention those cursed three words, I am received with a typical - that's all there is. That's all I can ask for. A good job, my health, family, friends, romance (assuming it comes along at one point or another), some people don't even have those. And since everyone else is content with this is what you get, or appear to be, or try to be, and since trying for more could cost me what little quota of the month of happiness I have, I recede. At best I can hope to push towards being one of those who insist on a sip to keep from emotionally dehydrating. Those who have dared ask for more, write self-help books and seminars about the joy of not needing anything more, but it sure is easy for them to say. Their more is this missionary work, serving as only artificial meaning or holy-grail for anyone else. And no matter how hard I try, I will never be them, genuinely happy with what there is. Perhaps I am spoiled by the plentifulness of the world, by the legends of those who dared and asked for it, and perhaps I'm just chemically incapable, something about insufficient seratonin in the brain.
But what really breaks me up is the fact that even if I should one day overcome these fears, and silence down the actual and virtual voices, even if I should surpass the "once" traps and brave the more, how I would I know where to start? What is this more that everyone speaks of? Surely it is different for everyone, but what is it for me? I am reminded of Scarlet Johansson's annoyingly impetuous Christina in Woody Allen's Vicky Christina Barcelona when she matter of factly and in a childlike manner declares "I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want." And I don't want this. But like everyone else I'm driven by the guilt, no one else get's anything more. This is all there is. At least for me. At least for now. And If I quoted the ever neurotic Woody Allen I only be so fair to quote someone more optimistic - This is the hardest story that I have ever told. No hope, or love, or glory, happy ending gone forever more. And I feel as if I'm wasting. And I'm wastin' every day.
There are five types of people in the world and they are normally distributed in a bell shape of dreaming. At the left end of the curve there are the few, the rare that are happy with an ordinary life. They are content with paying the bills, raising a family, taking the joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day. Right above them, a bit more common, are the people who know down deep inside them that there is something missing but they dare not complain, dare not strive or even hope for something more. Perhaps they think they do not deserve anything more. Perhaps they figure it is useless to dream. The suppressed dissatisfaction burns inside them a hole. And so they appear happy with their ordinary life, content with paying the bills, raising a family, trying to take joy in a good cup of coffee or a sunny day, until they blast out their brains or massacre the masses.
Slightly on the right of the general public that will be shortly discussed, are the fewer who find it a bit difficult to breathe right. They feel the tingles at the tip of their fingers as if things are constantly slipping away. So they allow themselves a single, or a single and a half dream to indulge in. They wait until they're 40 or 50 to marry the absolute perfect one or spend every heavy breath reaching the top at work. And they plug it, that unstoppable rush and gush of aspirations, in one or two problem spots where the wall nearly cracked, and go about their lives nearly peacefully. And finally, right above them sit the lucky ones. Few and rare like the ones at the other far end, and equally enviable are those who know that it's not enough, and choose to not settle for a minute, not by an inch, not through the ridicule or difficulty, not for loneliness or failure. They want more and they either get it, or spend their lives trying to.
The masses, the right down smack middle of the pack people, are those who know they want more. That's me. I want more out of life. More than waking up in the morning and going to a job that pays the bills. More than marrying someone who is rather attractive, rather clever, makes me laugh now and then, and gets along with me. I want more than occasionally having a drink with a friend or going to a movie and thus filling up my quota of happiness for the month. More than going to school to put a fancy piece of paper on the wall to say I've done something substantial with my life. I am the person who doesn't like coffee, and the sun gives me a headache. And I want more. And the reason we are the masses, the reason we keep living in this insatiable thirst never asking for a glass of water is paradoxically the very fact that we are the masses. I look to my left and there are people content with their way of living, and people who appear to be content with their way of living, and amongst me are the people who may not be content but live as if they were content, and to my right are the people who are content because they gave in to one bit of happiness.
And I feel inadequate. If everyone is seemingly satisfied, why should I ask for more? Those who did are no longer in sight, they are long gone, the stuff of legends or tabloids, nothing you can grasp or strive to. So when I should dare mention those cursed three words, I am received with a typical - that's all there is. That's all I can ask for. A good job, my health, family, friends, romance (assuming it comes along at one point or another), some people don't even have those. And since everyone else is content with this is what you get, or appear to be, or try to be, and since trying for more could cost me what little quota of the month of happiness I have, I recede. At best I can hope to push towards being one of those who insist on a sip to keep from emotionally dehydrating. Those who have dared ask for more, write self-help books and seminars about the joy of not needing anything more, but it sure is easy for them to say. Their more is this missionary work, serving as only artificial meaning or holy-grail for anyone else. And no matter how hard I try, I will never be them, genuinely happy with what there is. Perhaps I am spoiled by the plentifulness of the world, by the legends of those who dared and asked for it, and perhaps I'm just chemically incapable, something about insufficient seratonin in the brain.
But what really breaks me up is the fact that even if I should one day overcome these fears, and silence down the actual and virtual voices, even if I should surpass the "once" traps and brave the more, how I would I know where to start? What is this more that everyone speaks of? Surely it is different for everyone, but what is it for me? I am reminded of Scarlet Johansson's annoyingly impetuous Christina in Woody Allen's Vicky Christina Barcelona when she matter of factly and in a childlike manner declares "I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want." And I don't want this. But like everyone else I'm driven by the guilt, no one else get's anything more. This is all there is. At least for me. At least for now. And If I quoted the ever neurotic Woody Allen I only be so fair to quote someone more optimistic - This is the hardest story that I have ever told. No hope, or love, or glory, happy ending gone forever more. And I feel as if I'm wasting. And I'm wastin' every day.