I will cling to happiness. It is my choice. In the depths of my mind I forge the armor that will protect it. I fashion a shell that will house my attitude, my desire, my hope. If I let invaders pierce its soft hide with rusty hooks, I surrender control. My happiness has scars from the days I have failed. Yet, scars, when pondered are scribbled wisdom left upon the survived portions of the heart. I will cling to happiness.
I will not cling to the past. In the darkness, heavy deeds, done by me, done by them, hang, in a blanketed fog. A suffocating mass of sorrow falling down in a blur like a felled warplane. Black smoke swirls and chokes happiness, the fire, burns in my heart. I try and douse with contemplation, time, and prayer. I look down, and smell fresh gasoline on my fingers while I hold the black lighter. I take a deep breath. I will not cling to the past.
Life quite possibly is a rock face. Idleness breeds fatigue. Wind and snow discourage. If we stay within sight of one another, keep the heart happy, a warm yellow beacon will be lit. It will rise to the summit. Perhaps many will follow. Happiness breeds encouragement. To climb or fall? It is always my choice. May I choose to cling to happiness.