"I love shopping." I say to myself. "I just want to look, to see what is there. Though I can't buy any of it now, just looking will suffice."
But it never does.
Shopping is only a counterfit for something else in my life. When I feel empty, I often try fill it with items, objects that bring no discernible pleasure other than the owning of them.
That beautiful new shirt will look good on me, of course. And the makeup, though I already own a cabinet full of makeup supplies, of course I need that. And maybe, just maybe, those items will make me feel more beautiful, more special than I really am. Maybe what marketers say is true: You can buy happiness.
But then I come home, see my purchases, look at the receipts and realize that I didn't buy happiness today. Nor did I see it in any of the stores. It isn't to be found there.
Then there are the moments--quiet, still moments--when I touch happiness, just for a second, mind you, but I touch it and it seems real and alive to me, but only for a second.
I want to capture that, put it in a bottle and keep it on my shelf for later, when the world seems gray and my new books can't seem to bring me the joy they once did. Then, then I can unscrew the bottle, ever so slowly, and open it for a moment, just for a moment, and let myself feel again. Breathe in the sweet summer breeze. Feel fingers of the wind play with my hair like a whimsical child. Listen to the idle gossip of birds in the trees. Let the heat of the sun warm my back like a kitten curled up for a nap. Know that there is contentment in the world and I am part of it.
Yes, I wish to bottle happiness, to keep it with me for when the sun goes down and the moon hides behind the clouds.
I need happiness like I need the sun, like I need the air, like I need love.
Maybe I'll find it again someday. Then, I promise, I'll bring a big jar and trap it for a rainy day, maybe even to share some of it with you.
Sublime.
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