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Do Not Park here
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What is happiness? This elusive thing like a cloud floating like a wave rising swelling up and crashing. It’s a fickle thing. Sometimes I feel blue as pumpkin soup eaten alone in a purple booth on a rainy and gray day. Suffocated in a black puffy coat to stay warm. The dark oak table. Glossy and a sad reminder of the veneer on my teeth as I try to smile outside at the glass box of my reality. Trying to jump in but feeling so distant like a football field. Wide and expansive. Full of pointless green.

What is happiness? But a small sunrise and glimmer of pink hope. Purple greets, then bright orange. Do Not Park Here – orange cones in a driveway. Plastic rubber crushed under the weight of my tires as I park anyways.

Who invented imaginary painted lines? Yellow and white on the road. Red curbs. Do Not Park Here. An attempt to let us know that we are transient guests on this earth. An attempt to let us create order out of chaos, an intelligent and unfolding universe. Parking spots stolen. Blinkers on. Windshield wipers rubbing on dry windshields. Nothing to glide against only dust.

What is happiness? But cold pistachio ice cream on my pink tongue. The strum of motorcycles racing through another paved lot. On the road to nowhere. Giant sky, can you please swallow me already?

What is happiness? But a pee-wee Herman doll given to a child on her third birthday, Pale blue birthday cake. Candles blown. Now she has grown into a woman who wears purple eyeshadow and eyeliner for the world to see on a glass box.

Nothing is truly worth hanging on to in this carousel of mind. I grip the gold poles tight, not wanting to fly off but if I fly, maybe I would never feel my feet again and who needs feet when I can just float in the sea, stare at the clouds, who are really me, forever shifting, not really holding on to anything but a thought. I really am apart of everything. Jupiter and mars. Stardust and scars.

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