There is a very sad turning point along the way.
Very sad and very happy at the same time.
Sad at first, then happy.
Confronted with the reflux life never fails to bring up to our surface,
Suddenly understanding, like a can, a tin can,
Projected into the air, falls on the corner of our heads and racks open as it hits us :
There is no longer any point in waiting for others to make us happy.
Notes & Silence 
Happiness is such a strange and ephemeral concept.
It is not in a smile, an inane grin, even a raucous laugh.
It is not highly demonstrative. It is not te froth and bubble of party-time.
It is quiet, I think; understated, and has its foundation in understanding.
But can it be defined?
Probably not.
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your comment makes me think of a quote by Huxley I read recently :
« Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand. »
J’aimeAimé par 1 personne
A lot of sense in that.
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