Happiness Is Easy

Oh, Death, my companion so familiar, I start pondering a question that weighs heavily upon the fabric of existence. How is man, in his raucous concert, to rise above darkness of depression and the obsession with small things, so that he can then dance his circle of life? I am not sure, Death. For as much as I am the keeper of their moments, I am afraid that mankind as a whole is not ready for it. Their years are full of dissonances; their songs — with a background of the clangor of the shrill cries of trepidation and shyness. Nevertheless, amidst the chaos of insecurities and fears, there are scenes of spirituality, and mankind learns to see the divine streak in it. It is in those cracks and within those seconds of heavy breathing, that hope is truly found—It is a song of restoration and new beginnings. But how do they maintain this state of affairs, Death? Given that the lovers bear their hearts burdened by the weight of their own mortality? How can they be comforted if they are in a state of confusion when shadows of despair are hung over the horizon? Perhaps, Death, it is not my place to seek answers to these questions, but rather for humanity to discover their own harmonious response. Maybe that is what they need to do, simply to listen to the music only their souls can hear; only know that they exist — temporarily but beautifully. All the rest, is silent. But, Death, while I try to forget, I ponder whether humans possess the resilience to confront reality and transform grief and happiness into a weft and warp, in essence, into integral parts of life. Ultimately, the duration of these experiences in the grand ballad of existence holds no significance; it is the depth and resonance that truly matter.

Dear Time, my classy friend, I’d like to sing to you the song of consolation among the melodies of the world. For all of human kind’s apparent weaknesses in the face of adversity, they have a coded, orchestral kind of reserve. With boundless respect, you seem to be underestimating humanity as a whole. Look at the structure of their works, Time. The themes laid into the symphony of life’s difficulties. As the victories build up, they push against the odds and come out of the murky pit of despair, rising like a phoenix. Although they trip, fall, and at times they get lost, the collective reservoir of man’s flexibility is inexhaustible. It means that their philharmonic is the band of innovation and creativity, of performing and getting back up after a failure. And while they may struggle with the uncertainties I bring, I do believe that the human spirit has all the tools necessary to face their fears with vigor and finesse. Because in confusion, they seek comfort within timeless tunes of togetherness, kindness, and unity. Kind Time, there is a widespread belief, with a newfound sense of openness and harmonious balance, that you and I are seen as their friends. For they know that one cannot have progress, that is, change from one stage to another, without the setting changing. As for in the end, it is the art that comes from the soul that travels across the universe as a proof that the spirit endures. It is more fitting to imagine humanity as an orchestra with every person being a composition of his or her own. The initial tentative note of birth to the final triumphant chord. I am no more than an orchestral conductor to people – a figure who accompanies and leads everyone through the highs and lows of their existence. I do not pay much attention to the elements that make them up but really ponder on how they have been arranged, the ascending and descending pitches, the clashes and synthesis. The tune of life’s journey is arranged to harmonize self-actualization with the bitter tune of sorrow, happiness with sorrow. I hear their claps of happiness as though I see their progression upwards like an opera; I listen to their mourns of sadness with an empathetic heart. When, in a way of a human orchestra, people have nothing more to say, I become the keeper of their last words. I do not attack them but instead call them slowly towards the rhythm of the mortal notes they are to sing. The mark of each individual, however short, contributes to the music of life’s grand composition. Their instruments merge, supplementing each other in expression of what so many have overcome; the cycle is made complete, immortality is achieved. Even though I am the source of fear and reasons for apprehension, I am no more than its overture, a harmony played before the grand, ultimate Verse that is the crescendo of the orchestra, a grand achievement of one’s life. For it is not the number of notes that one may sing, but the range they hit in the listeners’ souls. Thus, Time, as I remain awake for all eternity, holding hands with you, our appreciation for the orchestra of mankind, remains unbroken. Have faith in their potential, as they have it with us. At last, Time, they provide the art, you provide the virtuosity, and I provide the experimentation.

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