happiness as it was, as it is, as it should be

"White Butterfly" by doug88888

Has the time changed our shape of hearts, is this warmth true warmth, I am sure this coldness is real.

The discovery and appreciation of fire that warmed our homes, cooked our food, protected us from predators and gave us light. Now, we neither appreciate it nor give a thought, a minute for it, while it still helps us keep our lives off the cliff. The bar has totally changed, the red part is overcome centuries ago, while we use every “free” source to fill up the additional part, when did the other part come. Not to mention rain, sunshine, plants, animals, snow, moonlight, and other things there translucent for us, waving for us, things that could fill up the red part and still fill the rest of it.

History may say that the colors were upgrading constantly through the passage of time but in the sense of happiness, the colors were rather fading away. A single day passed unharmed would bring safe dreams, a single meal to fill up our empty stomachs, a few sips of water to kill the thirst would ensure a warm day.

One could say, the times have changed, but the time is same, ticking by the second not changing its rhythm not changing its aim, but we change, and our change was more to the unfortunate. We can blame the Fall, we can blame other people, we can blame the whole history, our thirsts for easy industry. But blaming won’t change us to what we are supposed to be.

The wishes have changed from one single step to hundred miles, from one dog house, to a skyscraper, from a cup of water to artificial lakes. Basic needs are imaginative to our hearts extends. What was used to be is not anymore. Deliberate ignorance for the neighbouring countries that are in the same ball we float in. The word balance is used only for some financial statistics in the business world, that is fake and unbalanced like the world today itself.

What good is all the literature that is drowning in a vortex when we are living in a void with artificial rainbows. One should question if new words are ought to be written, while we are surrounded with libraries of books that are fading. Are all nobels, all poets, all lunatics. Like us following them.

Is the first flight of a butterfly still surrounded by the sun. Is the newborn baby walking alone. Does he hear the whisper of his loved one. Can the mother find her lost daughter. Is turning back the time possible for the boy regretting his actions. Who said you have to walk 100 miles, while one step is enough.