My friend says there’s pleasure in sulking

My friend says there’s pleasure in sulking. I say: 

Happiness is fleeting and is as meaningful as rushing chemicals.
Sadness is real, practical.
Sadness is bitter and it is sweet;
it is aware and it is hopeful.

Happiness is your dream lover.
Happiness promises eternal pleasure but you distrust it, because it has always dragged you down as it crashes and burn–no, simmers. It is a pathetic little flame it has always been.
Happiness is not so all dreamy after all–yet you keep on dreaming for it.

Sadness is the person who catches you.
Sadness stays with you throughout the evening ride yet gets angry with you for something stupid like being late for a date, until all these stupid little things blow up in your face and you hate sadness’ guts, and you hate yourself for thinking you deserve sadness.
Sadness lures you into its arms, afterwards. It envelopes you in this warm hug with a promise of going away and coming back and going away and coming back. Sadness only promises pain. Sadness promises the unknown. With this promise, at least, sadness brings certainty.
It follows through with its promises.
It is dependable.

Sadness is:

looking out the window of a moving car,
marveling at the lamp posts ablaze, the telephone wires blur,
while asking yourself
where did the stars go
after the city drove them away?



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