I used to not believe in happiness.
I used to believe that happiness was an illusion, a form of denial, a lie.
Above all, I used to believe that happiness was a distraction from the reality that engulfed the tragedy we called life.
I used to believe that happiness was really just the lowest form of sadness; that there really was no difference.
I used to believe that happiness was a mask that we chose to cloak ourselves in to get jobs, or impress others surrounded in sadness, or perhaps persuade ourselves that there was something worth fighting for after lugging ourselves out of bed every morning.
That was the point in my life where I concluded that I ought to stop looking at the glass as half-empty or half-full.
Then I believed.
I believe that happiness is a distraction. That happiness was willing to distract us from the other segments of life unwilling to grace us with its enlightenment.
I believe that happiness is really the only emotion available, but with a wide range of levels that some people attempted to rename.
I believe that happiness is a mask, worn to emphasize the colorful sides of the people able to make us happy.
Happiness was sadness, in a surprising form. But the only way to separate the two was to finish the sentence sentence.
I believe...