..the rain was coming down in slices...

one of my small, personal indulgences is to read a really good book, mark my favourite passages, quotes, words and jot them down in my tiny botticelli-notebook. They can be anything; a clever way of word-twisting, a beautiful paradox, the perfect description of a feeling. All these things make me happy.
Now they are not necessarily quotes that convey a happy message. On the contrary, the most beautiful art is usually full of sorrow. The deepest meanings are found in pain, not in happiness. That does not mean, however, that the message they carry are messages of pain.

Why is it that when we are happy, we are perfectly satisfied with ourselves being happy...but when we are sad we have the strong need to make others understand how we feel? Sadness, sorrow and inner turmoil seem to gain meaning only if we explain, dissect and analyze them. Showing somebody else how we feel becomes equivalent to understanding it ourselves. And what's to understand about joy? When we feel it, it is there, no need to know why. In fact, questioning happiness might scare it away.



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