There's a twisted agony in being happy. It feels charmless once your adrenalin is back to normal, and surprise is over. Leading to a trail of monotony, happiness remains to be another face of undeserving epitaph of yesterday's dreams.

Or maybe dreams never transpire into reality. How many of us can actually answer to ourselves what the dream is when noone's watching us, and we don't feel the societal pressure of being normal. No, I don't want to climb mountains, or dig for gold. I am still searching for what I wanted to do. Perhaps one day I will accept, being happy is not my dream. Finding my dream is.

Perhaps someday I will stand out to define myself as a tryst as one between mind and mayhem - someday I will write that piece in blood. Till then, happiness is that mundane wine that didn't last long enough to be relished.