People do whatever they can to keep themselves happy. Every single act of ours is an unconscious step in the direction to find happiness. Some find it along the way, some pin it on a destination, some attach it to a person, and some believe that it will be found in the world beyond. Making money is a means to happiness; because then you could buy a car. Following a religion is a means to be happy; because then you’d be getting approval from a supreme being to be happy Hereafter. Watching football is a means to be happy, and so is playing it. Writing a poem, cooking food, listening to music or making it; it’s all about finding that little spark in your heart which glows and lights up your insides. And so is falling in love. It makes you happy. And when it turns sour, you find some other source of bringing you joy. Even if it means finding pleasure in dwelling in the misery of it or finding peace in the breaking of china dishes over dinner. If there is this titanic movement of this world towards finding happiness, why is it that we’re all so delusional? No, really. Why? At the end of it, all one wants is to go back to bed and sleep in peace. Not dreaming of being torn apart by a half ostrich, half jackal animal, but of a place where the wind blows right through ones hair.
That’s why all these images all over the web teaching you things that you’ll need to keep your mind at peace. Images with quotes preaching stuff the monks in the Himalayas would. Pictures being boisterously sarcastic to make a point, and therefore find contentment in the act of spitting what they feel. Status updates claiming the insane amount of fun one had, or having, or will have. It’s a universal propaganda, happiness; disguised as a host of million things.
Happiness—that’s what it has always been about. That’s what it will always be.