Happiness is winter.

Many people associate happiness with summer, and I wish they were wrong.

Because like summer, my happiness is short, its seconds hastily creep away like that of a ticking time bomb.

Many people associate happiness with summer, but I think it's cruel.

Because like summer, my happiness burns me if I bask in it too long, it percepts my contentment as triggering fuel.

Many people associate happiness with summer, but I think it's juvenile.

Because like summer, happiness tricks you with its pulchritudinousness, and is adolescently praised for only lasting a short while.

See, I wish my happiness were winter.

Because winter does not trick me with its presence. 

Because unlike winter, summer does not deserve to be praised, not even for a mere second.