Happiness has become a commodity I am rarely afforded. The numerous media channels to which I am witness, has shaped my judgement of happiness. I am aware of how happiness should be acted, experienced and felt. Yet if I dare to steal a moment for myself retreating to the solace of my own space finding a simple pleasure between the pages of a book, I feel guilty as though I have cheated on myself. It is as though I am cheating on my happiness, failing to treat it with a supposed dignity needed to warrant it a successful happiness. I am a lazy lover to myself failing to woo my happiness, never quite buying the right flowers. Yet I feel exhausted, a lover wanting to role over wishing life could be simple again.
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