Joy-rich

Yesterday, as I was washing the dishes, a lovely stream of thoughts worth jotting down came to me in a steady, comforting flow. It was heartwarming how one thought smoothly flowed into another and another. But none of the thoughts affected me. I guess this is what they call the meditative state. If so, I often get into it when I am working with my hands. I was so sure I would be able to write down my thoughts the next day. Unfortunately, I can only write about how I could not. I need that recorder built into my body now. Desperately. It's a bit dampening when you hit a wall where your memories are or were.

I feel so utterly charged up and good this morning. Sometimes, I just feel happy that I feel happy—that I can look forward to the day, buzzing with a million things to do. I keep thanking the good Lord for it so that this feeling continues. It is my bank account, honestly. I just keep depositing happiness coins into it every day. Imagine a world where you have the best of everything, and it does nothing to stop you from wanting to die or harm yourself or others. See? Any day happiness coins over real-world currency for me. But I work and earn because my happiness currency is not accepted in the real world. Yet.

Can you imagine if it was? Some would be joy-rich, while others would be sorrow-stricken or borderline cases just below, above, or on the felicity line. But I foresee a lot of administrative issues. How will the system verify the authenticity of the happiness currency? For example, what if a guy walks up to the bank, grins at the cashier, deposits 1 lakh rupees worth happiness currency and then goes home and sobs his heart out or, worse, kills himself or someone else?

It brings to my mind this favorite poem…

 Richard Cory

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked,
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Coming back to happiness currency, it is complicated, but we could work out a system if we put our minds to it, I guess.

I still struggle to recall my thoughts from yesterday. Nada. Not a drop from that stream of consciousness. Anyway, they may come later, or there may just be better thoughts. However, I wrote today in the smoothest manner possible because I just followed my thoughts and typed on. I did not strive to be a great writer nor did I aim to sound intelligent or creative. I did not look for great words or write for hits. I wrote for my thoughts, to give them life on paper, and to see if they hum, flow, jump, and jumble on the page as well. 

 I wish I could write a poemystery like Mr. Edwin Arlington Robinson. Sigh. But happy that Mr. Robinson wrote this lovely gem for posterity.