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The little happiness

Peo­ple com­plain. It rains all the time. It is cold. It has already start­ed snow­ing. The sweet­ness of autumn was, as if it were a sur­prise, only a vein of promise. The del­i­cate life has gone to get dressed for the win­ter or rather, it has gone to take refuge in the south, among oth­ers among the Brazil­ians who, for their part, do not real­ly know win­ter and who think that 10°C is death.

I’m not afraid of the cold and I’m a lit­tle dis­tract­ed any­way. Also, as we can nev­er repeat often enough, the haz­ards of a grey sky are very lit­tle in the face of the dis­as­trous state of the world. Dit­to for my finances and my fun­ny relationships.

My eyes stopped at a book about hap­pi­ness. The author has been drag­ging his feet for about ten years now. Our brains, set to per­ceive dan­ger, are refrac­to­ry to hap­pi­ness and must be soft­ened, as Bud­dhists do, that every bit of joy must be used to bring forth our over­ly ner­vous synapses.

Even today, a Brazil­ian friend told me on Face­book that he felt small in the face of the great injus­tice around him but that he was try­ing, with his mod­est means, to make his entourage hap­py. He’s hand­some, this Brazil­ian, a sol­dier, who reads C.S. Lewis.

Beau­ty is indeed every­where, tena­cious as a hope. I would be dis­hon­est not to rec­og­nize it. I’m not say­ing I’m hap­py, I’m not say­ing I’ve found hap­pi­ness. That would be such a big lie. I am not real­ly unhap­py either, even though I am strug­gling with a deep sense of loneliness.

I try to be good, to let go, to live the autumns, the win­ters, the springs, and the sum­mers. I no longer know what my days will be like, so it results in a cer­tain lib­er­a­tion. I should have noticed it long before, but it is nev­er too late since time is just anoth­er cir­cus in the mael­strom of reality.

So, well, it rains all the time and it’s cold. I look for­ward to the blue skies of winter.

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