I am addicted to happiness.  But not in the way you may think.

I need happiness, just like most people.  My problem is that I can never find it.  I guess, to that extent, to say I am addicted to happiness might be an over statement.  Maybe indeed, I am addicted to the pursuit of happiness, which stays poetically just out of reach.  Always.

It's not that I am truly not happy, but maybe stuck in a perpetual midlife crisis, wondering if I am spending the last remaining minutes of my life in the most effective manner.

Effectiveness is my happiness.  

I do, in fact, not really have a definition of happiness.  It's never been money or materialism.  Indeed, as a child who grew up with hoarders, the thought of shit in my life causes me even more unhappiness.  Of course, this is all complicated by my manic ADD and borderline OCD.  The more shit I have in my life, the more things I have to manage, which distracts from my ability to focus on those things that really matter.  Namely, how to find happiness.  

There are a great number of other things that distract me further.  People, for instance, or the general ignorance the pervails around them, also seem to distract me from my persuit of happiness.  It's not that I really care about people around me or for what they think, but I all too often find myself pursing the fruitless task of convincing others of just how insane they are.  I'm not influential, nor inspiring, nor really anything close, but what I am is persistent.  Unfortunately, persistence rarely leads to anything other than a useless consumption of otherwise valuable time. 

I generallly don't see any difference between persistence when it comes to debate or banging my forehead into an exposed cement underpass.  Both are useless, although I find less frustration in the latter.  

And so my pursuit of happiness must continue.  Or, shall I say my pursuit of meaning, significance.  

Reconciling.

The apartment was dimly lit by the sunlight creeping through the slightly drawn shade in the window. Not a tiny spec of dust drifted through the rays of light that fell over the prinstine white sheets. The soft white glow of the bedside clock announced that the time was 6:29am.

Tom laid on his back, arms crossed over his chest, head cocked sideways and eyes wide taking in the clock time. Staring.

A soft hum of the fan blades above his bed made a subtle and rhythmic beating in the air. Outside, the faint sound of traffic and chirping birds were muffled, but loud enough to know you were in a cheap apartment complex.

A few apartments over, someone turned on their sink.

The clock turned to 6:30, and the soft sound of music wafted through the air. Tom turned his head and looked up at the ceiling.

He through the thick comforter off of his legs and rolled out of bed energetically. The room was clean and orderly, furnished with a simple, nondescript dresser and desk. His laptop was open, and a screen saver drifted with lines in an hypnotic code. Otherwise, the desk was clean and organized.

Tom grabbed his phone from the bedside nightstand. He scrolled through his notifications to check if he had missed anything important during his short night of sleep. He scratched is thick hair and yawned deep, squinting as he reviewed his messages.

A few updates from CNN, the weather for the day, the S&P closing and the Dodgers sports score.

And a message from Kathy, though it was not marked with a "911", which meant urgent.

It could wait.

He put the phone down on the table with a thud and walked gingerly to the living room.

Today was the start of a long day, and he wanted to get it started the right way.