What makes me happy, you ask?
Oh, a lot of things!
Ah, sunsets are the best!
They have all my favorite colors of the spectrum. So bright, warm, and red.
“What’s your favorite color?”, he asks me, brushing off my hair so he can see me better as I watch the sunset. “Red”, I tell him. It has always been my answer since I was a kid. “I don’t like red”, he tells me. “But you make even red look beautiful.”
It is not only the pleasure of looking at something so aesthetically pleasing. I think from the faraway days of human evolution, we have been made to feel safe in the gentle glow of a fire. I also think that there is a metaphorical sense of solace attached to the whole ending of something, turning a page, and putting our troubles aside and resting after a long day when we see the sun go down. “It’s just the sunset, what’s the big deal?” people have asked me when I clutter my Instagram and Facebook with so many pictures of the sun going down the horizon, down the sea, down the mountains, and down the skyline of tall tall buildings in my city and many other cities I have traveled. “Oh but it’s not,” I answer. No two sunsets are ever the same. Just like no two kisses are the same, even if they are from the same person.
I’ve loved books for as long as I can remember. My mom tells me she used to give me books to calm me down if I ever get into a tantrum as a kid. I do that to myself now. I keep books with me like a safety blanket, to feel comfortable whenever things get out of hand in this loud big world. It’s a part of being a grownup, I think—managing your own tantrums. I have books in my bag, on my table at work, scattered on top of the fridge at home, one or two on the pantry, a few piled up on the small white table beside my bed, even sometimes in the washroom. I pack a book or two whenever I travel. Oh, and I sometimes travel just to read books.
I love the books with stories of life. The kind that make me feel that I live in them. The tiny details of the surroundings, the traits, and habits of the characters that the writer smoothly injects and blends within the story. I love the books that have stories a little abstract, with a touch of realism that is more magical than real. Books with twists, happy endings, tragedies and sometimes with no ending whatsoever. I love fiction and nonfiction with satire, drama, romance, humor, mystery, horror, and I love poetry books even more.
It’s not just the stories I love when I say that books make me happy; sometimes it’s the presence of them. I can never think of a time I was unhappy in a library, a bookshop, or in the nook where I keep most of the books I own in my tiny apartment. I can sit near a pile of books and be happy is all I am saying; maybe it’s because they have given me so many happy times throughout.
Oh, and then the orgasms. I almost forgot. (No I didn’t!)
There is no headache, backache, heartache, or basically any ache that can’t be cured with a nice old orgasm. Am I right or am I right?
I’m not speaking about the kind of orgasms that compress all your energy into a tiny ball of bliss within you and explode in one giant wave of pleasure. Well, they are great, obviously, but that’s not all there is. I’m speaking about the kind of orgasms (Should I put the word in between quotes? Nah!) you get in the midst of a great conversation because the person you speak with is so passionate and knowledgeable about the subject. I’m speaking of the ones you get while listening to an agonizingly beautiful piece of music. The kind of orgasms you get as the flight takes off, taking you to a faraway land that you’ve never seen. I am also speaking of the lip biting, clawing, screaming, panting, and tear-inducing orgasms that leave you spent, breathless, and in a state of peace. “You don’t have to try too much; you know that I get there easily.” … “Oh but if not I will die trying,” he says.
So sunsets, books, and orgasms make me happy; and those are only a few among many, many things that do.
What makes YOU happy?