The best ideas are to be found in these hours of the night, so are the worst.
It is a man, a human being, it is slightly annoyed by this unwanted waking and it is happy.
Yes, happy as in carefree, as in joyful.
However it has the power to reflect on this state of happiness, which is often all it needs to interrupt this blissful state of happiness. Why does it think when there is no need to do so.
Why is it knitting together random words, often rhyming, while it should linger in the silent eloquence of happiness and sleep.
After all, there are no words for happiness. Long ago its kind invented words for painful laments, embarrassing frailty and songs for broken hearts.
Hearts neither break nor mend. Hearts beat for a while. That's all there is to it.
But the vocabulary it invented to express its hurt is close to infinite.
Mostly driven by the desire to impress its female counterpart, hoping to induce some pity, hoping to deposit its seeds that will provide it with an offspring, a tribe of its own, after all, it loves itself. It at least clinches to the illusion that whatever it does itself, it should do better.
A song about happiness is not a song, it's just a melody and some lalalalalaaaaa or doobidoobidoo.
Thinking of that, happiness is not suited for any of the arts it invented. Happiness is dull, plain, one-dimensional and dullness won't get it laid.
So can someone please tell those singing-people at the radio not to sing the kind of crap anymore that has a chorus even remotely similar to this one: "You make me feel so high, I wanna fly... so high... in the sky".
Yes, it is lazy. To hide its lack of talent, more talented specimens sing for it at radio studios around the world that then transmit the music to those who aren't able to serenade a female into their beds themselves. It is then a matter of learning the right lyrics by heart, copying the best lament and make the pain feel like its own. It's important to have pride in its own taste, with no room for discussion. After all, arrogance is often mistaken for confidence.
Quoting famous people, well-respected writers, or even philosophers (olalala) will provide it with a perfume of enigma, confidence and depth of character. Even better than just confidence.
A guaranteed leg-opener. A false scent to hide its own nature.
O yes, it is a man. Whatever that is.
Why was it writing all this? Oh yes, happiness. It was happy.
Happy. If you say the word a couple of times, you will see what a stupid word it actually is.
Anyway. It was happy. A lot.
It felt the touch of a warm body, a breast maybe, that was transmitting this delicious heat to its back. It felt loved, it felt love also running through its veins.
After all it does know sincere love, without any need for tricks to deposit seeds, without the need or desire even to procreate or rejoice in any form of horizontal tango.
It's a side effect. Love. It's too pure for this imperfect creature.
But love is there, love exists. And it is addicted to the bliss of love.
Sincere love, without the need for words.
Sincerely yours,
cardápio
