I don’t get this thing where people make lists about what makes them happy. Feels like busywork for souls that forgot how to breathe. Maybe that’s the trick now—scribble down thirty reasons to keep your heart beating and hope one of them sticks.
Me? I don’t have thirty.
Hell, I barely scraped together five—and even that feels like a stretch some days. But here they are, the small anchors that keep me from drifting too far:
- A cup of coffee strong enough to burn the fog out of my skull.
- A good smoke when the world won’t shut up.
- A pen that glides like it knows what I’m about to say before I do.
- A fresh pad of paper, clean and waiting for truth or madness to spill on it.
- Not having to wade through nonsense questions about things nobody really wants to know.
Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe happiness was never meant to be a laundry list—it’s just these little sparks that keep the dark from swallowing you whole.
And if you’re wondering why there aren’t more?
I live by one code: Truth or happiness? Never both.
Memoirs of Madness 
Good share, I always appreciate truth. Kind regards.
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thank you
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I agree with the notion that listing 30 things that you like seems like a lie. Or things that make you happy. It’s ridiculous. In the poem I wrote. I really struggled to figure out 30 different things because it started sounding repetitive. And in a blog, it would’ve been worse. I love what you wrote. You’re right on the nose.
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thanks, Aaron
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‘Truth or happiness – never both’ – that’s right ! Truth, can be quite ugly and hard to swallow.
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thank you
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A fresh notebook with good pens…..that is my jam.
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I know right
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It all begins with the right cup of coffee. Then let the stagecraft of life (bullshit) begin!
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thank you
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