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.
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