Russell Van Alphen // D7 // FIN

"What's it like to be happy?"

It nags at me again, this question.

"What's it like to be happy?"

It nags at a tall man hacking away at a tree, his freckled pale skin possessing a bit of luster as it seems to cast off some kind of glow when put under light; natural or man-made, electric or fluorescent. A man of ginger hair, typically in a slicked back undercut where if not groomed poofs upward in controlled chaos. Often does he don a beard to frame his inverted triangle face, his downturned, hooded eyes, his refined nose and his pointy natural lips.

More hair layers his skin, especially his chest--currently exposed for his flannel is half-buttoned as his thin, toned frame keeps chopping through the tall pillar of wood. Sweat beads his forehead as the sound of metal meeting bark and grunts of effort are heard. Rolled up sleeves, suspenders to dark jeans, glossy boots--

"What's it like to be happy?"

Thick, faded brows furrow as those six words pushed their way back to the forefront, into the mental spotlight. He clenches his teeth as the blows come slower, hesitance in thought now dominating him.

"What's it like to be happy?"

The question had always rolled off the tip of my tongue, bouncingtumblingtwirling out into the air from the breaths of past selves. They really tried searching for that answer, wanting to hear it straight from the mouths of those blessed to experience the feeling so they would know when the sensation almost unheard of in their lives tugged at their tiny little heartstrings.

Mom told them where the feeling could be found, where they should look for that answer; skippy steps and walks of an irregular pattern like a heartbeat, but no rhythm in a heartbeat meant it was crying and dying, dying and crying strugglingtolive. Footprints on the other hand, where instead of seeing them arranged side-by-side in fluffy white slush the sequence is stepskipstepskip, was a sign of happiness. Radiant whites arched from ear to ear, a glow in the eyes and a stick-straight posture, all were signs for those special snowflakes amongst the masses floating down to the surface who held the solution to the puzzle.

"What's it like to be happy?"

Reactions ranged from curious smiles to strange gazes. (Of course, how else would they react to young boys of varying ages walking right up to those who held the key to this locked wooden jewelry box and asking them to open it so they could obtain its treasures?) Treasures of joy, kind spirits, warmth, smiles, laughter, but sometimes they didn't know the box even existed in the first place.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Is everything alright?"

Other times, their key didn't fit--or they didn't want to take it out at all. They left it untouched, unused, they wanted the kids to find their own.

"You'll know when you feel it too, kid."

"You're smiling, you want to walk with a skip and you just breathe the feeling. That's what it's like."

"When you're happy, you're happy of course."

But to this day, they never did--and no one they asked who felt happiness, sawheardsmelledtastedtouched it at least once in their otherwise bleak and gloomy actualities, none of them let the kids borrow the shaped metal they acquired from their senses picking up on the state of satisfaction. None of them helped the kids unlock the box they possessed that was long necessary and desired to have exposed to their inquisitive eyes. Eyes that, in truth, hid a slowly expanding spark of desolation in them because they were surrounded by it with each passing day.

Maybe those who already knew of happiness were given their own boxes for them to try and open themselves, maybe it was just a simple case of individuality where we're all meant to find the key for the jewelry box in our own unique way. It's a possibility, and GodRipredfuck was life full of them. But even if this was and is the case, they still needed to know, they couldn't just sit there and wait for the feeling to come to them, they needed to know what to expect from it so they can identify happiness when it would finally come.

Man, do I still need to know.

They were growing tired of looking everywhere and they were growing tired of asking people for assistance so they would learn where they're supposed to be trying to find it. I'm growing tired of seeing dead eyes stare back at mine; vacant vortexes devoid of this condition of positivity my dad, mom, friends, neighbors, everyone I'm surrounded by and I surround myself with carry in their faces for me to have to look into on the daily. Nothing, literally nothing but scaryemptynothingness.

It's not just scary, it's fuckin' terrifying.

"Teacher, what's it like to be happy?"

Fuck, that's not it.

But I have to keep searching, I need to solve this mystery, this aching riddle squirming in my train of thought with every fleeting second of my consciousness. These words of thought all act in pairs, and this one was missing its other half.

It has to be here somewhere. I know it can't lie in my bedroom, in my house or especially my neighborhood where poverty reigns supreme with a crown of cardboard and a throne of lumber scraps, but somewhere in District Seven the answer is crying out for help--to be reunited with its twin.

I'm still trying to find out if it lies in the hearts of people. Simply asking, waiting, and seeking for it myself yielded only wasted effort and will chipped down to boredom, so instead I recently resorted to lending a helping hand in the locality I've grown up to be used to, any way I can. Buildinggardeningbakingcookingsomething to try and bring about happiness, not just for them to find within their beings but for myself to see their involvement in it too, so I'll know.

Please, just let me know.

There can't be all this damn pain without happiness being here to balance it out. It's out there for me and for the people I care about, I just have to spot it, reachoutandgraspit and hold onto that light of hope to give out to everyone.

"TIIIMMMBERRRRR!"

I can't fall.

I can't let myself fall and I can't allow the people around me to either. This is a race against time between cheer and misery and I'm trying to help the former get to the finish line first.

Let it get there first, let me make sure it does.

Please.

I'm--still--trying.

'Cause if you want happiness, you gotta try to achieve it, and I guess I'm the only one who still believes it's here for us.

Ready and waiting to be taken to the finish line.