Happiness is a strange thing; even when it's a deep happiness and makes you see everything in a soft glowy light. It's like this cloak that you wear so you only see the good parts on top of the soil. But then you can't forget that the soil is where the roots are. You can be happy for so long looking at all the roses, that you start to miss what it felt like to be curled amongst their roots, entwined within the warmth of the damp dirt, roots wrapped around your limbs. You can begin to forget that depth. You can begin to forget who you are. Maybe happiness isn't any better; maybe it's just something we do to make the days brighter. Like a lamp post. But lamp posts drown out the stars, you see.