Stargaze

If I don't respond immediately I'm happy. Looking at the sun I'm happy. Each reckless summer I'm reliving the past, telling myself I'm happy because this happiness is temporary, so I bask in it. I soak up every fervent drip and I don't let any go to waste, because I'm happy. I sleep through the alarm and I'm happy, it's just me and my dreams. A one night stand laced with profound happiness, but there's no meaning to me in the word happy. What does it mean? Am I meant to smile and forget? I looked in the mirror and my body was blue, but I told myself I have to be happy. It's a cult emotion, a transceiver riddled with errors and contradictions. I've started a fire I can't put out, and now I'm living life like a neurotic hedonist. Drugs make me happy. Forgetting makes me happy. Being wild and forgetting makes me happy. I don't want to remember all the times I'm blue, pretending this sunshine crown is reality. I'm not happy. I don't know what happiness feels like. My mind is so black and I'm so aware, today we had a meeting planned. I tried to wake up and muster up the strength to come, but I wound up teary-eyed again, just thinking about how life used to be. I've never been so depressed, thinking about wet feet on a beach. So peaceful. My eyes blink but my stare is dead, so I sleep through the alarm and I'm happy. Plagued with nightmares, and I'm unhappy. The room was dark and I stumbled, more tired than usual. I've been trying to sleep a lot. It's the only thing that alleviates the pain, how uncomfortable I feel. I'm hoping for answers, hoping for happiness, but the sun never shines through those dark grey clouds. All of those mundane pleasures never blossom into poppy seeds, birthdays I sit alone and think. How did I end up here? A nocturnal architect bending futures. In a never-ending metamorphosis I'm closing doors in every storm, floating in clouds of spit in my face. I want to be better, I want to write better. Just last night I tired to write a happy poem, but it was a ruse. A bandage on every sombre thought. I met a young man on the run, dying but he never told anyone, and there was a cold night look in his eyes lingering like a lonely breath. But in that moment I felt a surge of optimism blossoming when I haven't felt hope in aeons. So I went for a walk at night, my favourite time to be alone, and I had a smoke and a cold beer. The sweeping air awakened me and brushed off my cheeks like a cold blade, and when I got home I was pink and ripe. Recently I've been sweating a lot about life, but during this walk I couldn't help but ponder on my misfortunes, and felt more disconnected and lonely than I usually do. I guess loneliness is just another death I have to grieve and wrap my head around, like a void I can't possibly fill. I used to be so full of conversations, but now when I'm in company it's a task just to maintain eye contact. My doctor said I'm depressed. He even offered me medication to help ease the burden of dark thoughts and the insomnia I harbour, because he knows how I've tired to kill myself, but I refused because like always I had convinced myself I'll be fine and okay. I'm happy, right? I'm happy, right?