The unhappy writer

“Are you happy?” The young showman waited patiently for his answer. The modern world regarded him as a modern-day-sage, and so he must at least pretend to linger to every second of his musings before he reveal his wise words. “No…I’m not happy”. The author of a dozen life-inspiring books shifted his gaze towards the crowd who gasped at his answer. The young showman, also surprised himself, struggled to cough an introverted laugh and asked; “Why?”. He will always be a show-host.

Or, in that case, an annoying brat. “You wrote best-selling books about happiness. People consider you a modern day philosopher, the next Coelho. Personally, I have collection of your works. I am one of the millions who adore you.” The brat managed to summon a smile and hoped that no one would catch that bullshit he pulled out to keep his audience amused. The celebrated author caught the sly smile and returned it. “How about you? Are you happy?” He asked the brat in a grade school teacher and student manner, “Do you consider yourself a happy person?” The young showman grinned. He was prepared for the answer; he studied a little bit of psychology to expect that a defensive person might, in an eighty-percent probability, throw his question back at him. “Yes, I am. I am living the dream. A career, good health, people who love me. Yes I am happy, really happy” He leaned on his chair with the air of confidence commonly seen on geeks who solved a difficult math problem. “Sure you are.” The celebrated author took his glasses for his bare eyes to study the brat. The audience noticed every move.

“It is not happiness, it is contentment. Happiness is often associated with pleasure; the pleasure you have from your money, your career. Or, the pleasure you get by being healthy and loved. Sometimes, we do not see the distinction; therefore we believe both to be the same. I do not know what makes you happy, really, even with the people present here. Hence, I can’t really say. Contentment on the other hand is different. That can be sensed.  It is like Sunday afternoon; after the work the six day struggle, we rest – go to the park, or read a nice book, feast on cravings, or the simple enjoyment of hot coffee.” He stopped to wait for the brat to speak. There was no interruption. Obviously, no one knows where it is going, although, they would readily ride the wagon to know where.

The celebrated author looked to the audience and continued, “I said that I am not happy because I only recognize pleasure, and often times I get confused; I traveled the world, I had women when I woke up at expensive hotels, the cars, the mansions…the eight figures. I experienced the pleasures offered by this world and I became greedy. I hunger for the next best pleasure, then the next, then the next; the demand for the next high, of pleasure, made me calloused, bored, unsatisfied. The homeless guy is likely to feel more pleasure with a fried chicken, than me eating caviar – I feasted everyday and realized that I have never feasted at all. And, it hit me. I am not happy. I have more but I feel less.”  He paused again to throw a gaze at the brat, “It is difficult to be contented, yet the secret to happiness is in that simple word. People have dreams but the world has long ruled that not everyone can have them. Contentment is a way to make sense out of the rejection, and also a way to ground humans from that insatiable appetite for pleasure. You see, you are happier than me.” He gave a different smile, one with the humility of an honest elder.