happiness is fickle
(foto)
“I listened to your playlists yesterday. can I keep them?”
he kicked the ball towards me―it was quite far from the one he did yesterday―with his earphone dangling from his front pocket. I jogged past some kids giggling over little crabs which then they jumped randomly from one spot to another. and I directed him another kicking session before I brushed the sand from his hair―we both knew I was going to discard them but my fingers allowed the tiny bits even more there―and time suddenly stopped as I heard him whisper: you’re not even listening.
I swore it slapped me hard in the face and he probably could hit me again with another farce. but I wasn’t ignoring. I heard you. I only wanted to distract him from the truth I had before my sealed lips. “sure, you can keep them. are you alright?” at first glance, it seemed artless. something so straightforward, so effortless when someone―who couldn’t stand sitting in the same room as me―was piqued by something we both often argued about for as long as I could remember.
don’t get me wrong. it did sweat me with anxiety as we played "guess these songs" through his playlists alone. he shuffled them all and I listened intently, judging the rhythms. for the first time ever, he confessed to me his sins. “I wanted you to learn something from this yadayada guys, but, never mind. not today. perhaps, you can try this other yadayada and other yadayada too.” on and on he talked about it (but I wasn’t listening).
later that day, I tried to listen to yadayada and other yadayada for many times already. although I didn’t know how to really enjoy listening to his music, at least I tried. it wasn’t about "oh if you listen to this one, I could fall for you even more" or "do you know which one is their masterpiece?" if he pointed that out on a whim. I know how bad he got hurt years before and how he only wished to be heard through the songs he had at the back of his mind.
“I listened to your playlists yesterday. can I keep them?” there was a pause. “you’re not even listening.”
I heard you. “sure, you can keep them. are you alright?”
“quite busy, but I’m okay now. I’m happy.”
for many years going, he wanted to be happy and he finally found his way through little things: music and brisk walks in the sunset. knowing him, it’s not easy. he once scolded me for being friend with someone unhappy, and in his defense, I shouldn’t. but what’s there to be blamed if someone’s not happy?
the ones who constantly say unhappy people are criminals are just confused with themselves. it’s ridiculous and stupid. I avoided him for many months then because I didn’t want to think of any answers to find your own ways to be happy. months later, I got him his favourite album only to say my sorry. it didn’t do much to him, as far as I recall, other than him having two favourite albums to help him through the day. or that was just me being optimistic.
why do we think it’s our obligation to make someone stay happy all the time whenever we found out that someone isn’t happy? why do we keep doing things not in our control? what’s there to be blamed if someone’s upset for things he can’t expect less?
if someone’s not happy, it doesn’t mean he’s really that unhappy. sometimes, he just wants to feel hurt so that he can heal. in this mad, mad world, one could only pretend (no matter what it takes) to be busy so that he could be free from consuming too much negativity in life, or from religiously fitting into definitions "how to be happy" set by mad, mad people. either he gets busy for fun or gets busy for survival. talking is easy, yes, but in order to break his mould, eventually, he breaks others’ too.
it’s normal to be upset, especially for things we expect more. we want to love hard, play hard and work hard but we’re not there yet, somehow, we’re just designed such way: we get hurt more when we do more. life goes on and we’ll learn some more, too. just in case. someday, we are healed, I hope we’ll remember the storms and rains we had before. that’s what keeps us alive: a base line we’ve already established as a reference to be someone we aren't ready yet to be. and when something turns out wrong, we’ll remember that line and how we cannot cross it.
“sure you can keep them. are you alright?”
“quite busy, but I’m okay now. I’m happy.” but we do know we can cross it, no?
he kicked the ball towards me―it was quite far from the one he did yesterday―with his earphone dangling from his front pocket. I jogged past some kids giggling over little crabs which then they jumped randomly from one spot to another. and I directed him another kicking session before I brushed the sand from his hair―we both knew I was going to discard them but my fingers allowed the tiny bits even more there―and time suddenly stopped as I heard him whisper: you’re not even listening.
I swore it slapped me hard in the face and he probably could hit me again with another farce. but I wasn’t ignoring. I heard you. I only wanted to distract him from the truth I had before my sealed lips. “sure, you can keep them. are you alright?” at first glance, it seemed artless. something so straightforward, so effortless when someone―who couldn’t stand sitting in the same room as me―was piqued by something we both often argued about for as long as I could remember.
don’t get me wrong. it did sweat me with anxiety as we played "guess these songs" through his playlists alone. he shuffled them all and I listened intently, judging the rhythms. for the first time ever, he confessed to me his sins. “I wanted you to learn something from this yadayada guys, but, never mind. not today. perhaps, you can try this other yadayada and other yadayada too.” on and on he talked about it (but I wasn’t listening).
later that day, I tried to listen to yadayada and other yadayada for many times already. although I didn’t know how to really enjoy listening to his music, at least I tried. it wasn’t about "oh if you listen to this one, I could fall for you even more" or "do you know which one is their masterpiece?" if he pointed that out on a whim. I know how bad he got hurt years before and how he only wished to be heard through the songs he had at the back of his mind.
“I listened to your playlists yesterday. can I keep them?” there was a pause. “you’re not even listening.”
I heard you. “sure, you can keep them. are you alright?”
“quite busy, but I’m okay now. I’m happy.”
for many years going, he wanted to be happy and he finally found his way through little things: music and brisk walks in the sunset. knowing him, it’s not easy. he once scolded me for being friend with someone unhappy, and in his defense, I shouldn’t. but what’s there to be blamed if someone’s not happy?
the ones who constantly say unhappy people are criminals are just confused with themselves. it’s ridiculous and stupid. I avoided him for many months then because I didn’t want to think of any answers to find your own ways to be happy. months later, I got him his favourite album only to say my sorry. it didn’t do much to him, as far as I recall, other than him having two favourite albums to help him through the day. or that was just me being optimistic.
why do we think it’s our obligation to make someone stay happy all the time whenever we found out that someone isn’t happy? why do we keep doing things not in our control? what’s there to be blamed if someone’s upset for things he can’t expect less?
if someone’s not happy, it doesn’t mean he’s really that unhappy. sometimes, he just wants to feel hurt so that he can heal. in this mad, mad world, one could only pretend (no matter what it takes) to be busy so that he could be free from consuming too much negativity in life, or from religiously fitting into definitions "how to be happy" set by mad, mad people. either he gets busy for fun or gets busy for survival. talking is easy, yes, but in order to break his mould, eventually, he breaks others’ too.
it’s normal to be upset, especially for things we expect more. we want to love hard, play hard and work hard but we’re not there yet, somehow, we’re just designed such way: we get hurt more when we do more. life goes on and we’ll learn some more, too. just in case. someday, we are healed, I hope we’ll remember the storms and rains we had before. that’s what keeps us alive: a base line we’ve already established as a reference to be someone we aren't ready yet to be. and when something turns out wrong, we’ll remember that line and how we cannot cross it.
“sure you can keep them. are you alright?”
“quite busy, but I’m okay now. I’m happy.” but we do know we can cross it, no?