Nowhere but Nothing Face

I wonder what this life has in store for me. I fear that I will never get to a place where I can feel completely content. It is where my folly lies, in the completeness that can not be. What is completeness? Can one be fully complete or rather complete. It's impossible to assume that any form of the complete can even be entertained. How can one be complete? It assumes an end, some destination that is loosely defined by a word, content. The contentedness of being in some state of perpetual happiness. Content and happy, are these two words mutually compatible or are they two entirely separate entities? Is happiness defined by being content? Some correlation can be drawn for the mutual inclusiveness of happiness insofar as being in a state of not wanting or needing anything more, of being content. However is this really the definition of happiness? It seems to me, to be some ephemeral term this contentedness, a vaguely translucent construct that appears in moments of a wish less night. How can it be anything more than just a fleeting moment when, all things being considered, are in some alignment and then with the whim of a thought it can waft away with the breeze of desire. Is it not what desire stands for, discontentment? It would seem that happiness is circular, some crazy notion that one could be complete. Happiness is the absence of discontentment and somewhere along its etymology it has become a goal, a human pursuit that is ill perceived in reality. When one says they are truly happy, what exactly do they mean? That they are lacking desire or need or want, that they are content with exactly what they have? Its conceivable that such people exist but are they for real? Are they hidden in some existential bubble that they care not for anything? Do they not feel the macabre face of suffering when they look beyond the bubble. Are they living in a utopia that mere mortals dream of?

Happiness is bought and sold to the masses as an illusion. There is no happiness only the illusion that we could be happy, if only. Happiness is not the domain of the thinker, it is the possession of the mindless individual in the sense that the mind holds the keys to heaven and hell. Reality decides which way the key turns.

Reality is the key and its substance is illusion. Reality exists in an entity that does not exist. No where can we find the key but in our mind and it is nowhere to be seen. The mind hovers in a vacuous state of nothingness and no eye can perceive of this nothingness. If heaven and hell reside within the confines of nothingness then it is a nowhere place in a void that seemingly exists but does not. The clarity of this vacuous stare can be beheld when looking into the black dials of nothingness. If one looks deep inside the mirror, to the pupils of the beholder, a flash of recognition illuminates the illusion, it becomes rigid; it solidifies as it stares back into the reality of nothingness. Can we be happy when we see that there is nothing to be happy about, because it is nothing that is happiness. Like the song goes..."Don't Worry...Be Happy" because there is nothing to worry about.