The Happy Theorem

By Anoushka Sinha

Happiness comes with unsung dualities:

A scenario where the lover you've found has a home with you;

I can see the white picket fence.

And the green grass seems greener when the French neighbour brings the potluck Sunday party to your house.

You're loved.

The long-forged American dream is loved.

And I scrape every bit of that dream off the piss-stained wall,

On the junkie lane.

Where the graffiti thrives better than my fortunes,

And the tarot knows the way to the dealer's house.

"Mark my hand with silver," and I'll tell you if you'll overdose on that sickening ambition you've built through the ages.

Hold it in, and I might just feel your pleasure in me.

Just five seconds of that carnal heaven is the price of such duality.

A whore being a human is what keeps the world spinning.

Because what good is pain if we don't hurt?

What good is relief without any pain?

Without the constant worry of bleeding out too easily.

Will blood thinners help?

Or would it be the easel that tilts the canvas until it bleeds?

What a strange contraption of foul and hurt...

I live in it.

I've made love to it, hoping to find the first face of this dual monstrosity.

But will I ever?

Because look,

No, just look

What a second face happiness finds in me:

Fresh food on my plate,

fresh air to breathe,

Younger hearts that break–

Those that  break me.

Such sweet bliss to be on the second face,

No false identities,

only the ones we've chosen to be.

And then there's the thought of the uncut gems.

They've been hidden away for eternity.

But that doesn't mean they've lost the value of their secrets.

In fact, they're valued for their rarity.

As is happiness,

Unfound in every square mile of my world,

Yet somehow it's always there, tempting with its wicked schemes.

The second face is the only one in sight, but it's the only way we can still dream.

Because what is happiness?

If not the air we choke on,

The pain before the pleasure

The groan before the slumber

The stench before the familiarity?

What is happiness if it's only for the good and fortunate?

What is it for us without its fatal flaw?

Without the thought of us outcast anomalies?

What is happiness?

if no one sings for its duality?

By Anoushka Sinha