Happy.

Happy. 

That is what they call me.

Friends and co-workers,  family and strangers.

A conglomeration of people, rendered speechless at first glance of a sunny disposition. 

But why shouldn’t I be?

Happy. 

The condition we all strive for,

Tirelessly altering the physical world around us,

In pursuit of a dissimilar mental state. 

Happy.

We spend our entire lives earning material things,

Expecting quantity to supplement quality. 

Although we deny it, our human condition proves that

we believe money can buy happiness. 

Happy.

That is not happiness, and that is not what I subscribe to.

My happiness springs from the contradictory.  

That everything in our world is so vast and so beautiful,

That the material is a minor triumph

I am happy because of we.

We as humans, we as a species.

Although we live in a balance of dominance and destruction,

We continue to flourish, to co-exist. 

For every tree we axe, another will grow.

For every thing that dies, another is born.

Through our destruction, we are never deserted.

Through our faults, we are never alone.

We thrive on a rock who harvests life.

In our solar system, we are special.

Meer chance yields a world of abundance,

Just one million miles in either direction,

And death.

Extents in millions are  expounded as goliath,

In the cosmos, it is minute.

In the entire universe, we are one small crumb.

We are infinitesimal.

We are chance.

We are luck.

We are a species.

We are a family.

We are never alone.

Happy.

Our existence is beautiful,

Our world is beautiful.

We are the product of a miracle.

Living on a small rock that harvests marvel and wonder every day.

Happy.

That is what they call me.

Happy.

But why shouldn’t I be?