Happiness comes in increments, like a flurry of baby bats. Except they’re albino and get tangled in your wide web of hope. That’s why you’re unhappy when the sun sets. That’s why you open the medicine chest and grope the bottles. Unrecognized happiness drives you to synthetic happiness before your dreams have a chance to come true.
I suppose I should back up a ways, into the deep cave where happiness hangs high up in a stupor of darkness, waiting for the moon to rise. Perhaps this is where action is called for, before happiness shatters into flight, before it has a name. I could climb the moist cliff to its perch, foreclose on my fear of high places and reach out. Rock sleeping happiness in my arms like a baby and whisper lullabies that go clear back to childhood.