I am happy. Not so much as the neighbor, nor my father, but happy in my own wicked way. Green I am, with envy, or fury, or sometimes lust. I envy the neighborís ecstatic faÁade, and my fatherís fits of inebriating laughter. At times my own cohesion breaks, and thus this happiness turns rotten. By this point I find myself gasping under the satin sheets, in the four walls that make up my bedroom. I also cry. Childhood memories haunt the light within my head, thrust it to the darkest corner and make me cloudy. And the storm ensues, as in my memories I see a personís tears being the cause of the villainous, callous tormentorís happiness. There are also memories of love once gained, and lost too many times. I grasp it in my mind, but that is not enough. It slips my fingertips, like leaves in autumnís eve. So beautiful it is, but burns with wintry fury. The covers once come off, I promptly sit. I drain the stream with paper, and force resentment away; its bitter chill Iíve felt so many times. Itís mere routine. Donít fail me, resolution. IÖ am happy.





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