A text by Georgia Small
photography by Rosie Viva

I just spent my entire day sat at my dining room table with the fan on low writing about happiness. It’s now nearly 10pm and I am absolutely miserable. I will never be able to sleep. I’ve had four cups of mint tea and I still feel unsettled. I deleted my entire day’s work. It sits in the tiny trashcan in the bottom right hand corner of my screen where it belongs. In the trash. With trash things. There’s this hollowness in my heart that I think I recognize as ‘dissatisfaction’. I’ve felt like this before, when I start thinking about life too much. I should have known better than to start pondering the question of ‘happiness’ and its attainability when I’m currently unemployed, in a country far away from all my friends.

My morning was average. I woke up, deliriously stepped into the shower, stepped out wet and slightly less delirious, poured an enormous bowl of granola and sat down. My dad folded up the newspaper and pushed it over next to my unused fork. I got the hint. I pretend to start reading the paper but soon abandon it and make myself a coffee. I open my laptop and copy and paste the title you see above. I’m staring at it and staring at it but all I can focus on it the cute little dots and the collection of s’s. Look at them all. SSsssssssss

I’m going mental. The problem with the question of happiness is that no matter what I write, I find myself both trite and trivial. Both of which are entirely disagreeable – in any given context.

I tried to discuss the dichotomy of happiness and melancholy, and the fact that without one we cannot have the other. But Keats got there first. So did a million other people, probably before him too. I tried to explore the idea that all emotions should be valued equally. I looked at Derrida, and Wilde, and the subversion of dichotomies as a means for shaking the foundation of universal truths. In fact I became so obsessed with the notion of subversion that I forgot about happiness all together.

“The subject of happiness is one that has permeated our lives for as long as… a long time. As I was writing I was starting to realise that the heavy emphasis we place on this ‘happiness’ thing is what makes it so unattainable. We over analyse it.”

The subject of happiness is one that has permeated our lives for as long as… a long time.  As I was writing I was starting to realise that the heavy emphasis we place on this ‘happiness’ thing is what makes it so unattainable. We over analyse it.  Our lives are a myriad of screens; screens big and small that remind us that whatever happiness we may feel, someone somewhere is happier than us. Instead of contrasting our own happiness against our prior sadness, we contrast it against other people’s happiness and deem ourselves unhappy in comparison. Our notion of happiness is now so inflated as to be impossible, unachievable.  How the hell am I supposed to happy unless I live on an island surrounded by transparent water eating fruit out of a coconut donning a year round tan with a thigh gap, breasts that bounce as I prance along the beach next to my chiselled boyfriend, promoting self love and a gluten free diet? Are these people even happy? Or do they just sell us a representation of happiness that we then have to measure ourselves against? What I’m basically trying to say is that we are constantly comparing ourselves to the un-dimensional lives emitted by our screens.

So I’m thinking about all this, and the reason why I feel so low is because I have no real idea of what MY own definition of happiness is. I realise that for me, at this stage in my life, it is not an all-encompassing concept. It can’t be. There is nothing in my life that is solid, I live in fragments and so my happiness comes in moments. But I think it’s maybe important to realise that this too is happiness within itself; that a fleeting happiness is still valuable. Maybe if I collect enough transient moments it will amount to some greater definition of happiness that I am yet to discover. But I would also like to make a point that I am not unhappy. I used to be. Around this time last year is one of the few times in my life that I have truly been dismally unhappy. I allowed an unhealthy relationship to consume me entirely – despite advice from both friends and family who could see the damage when I could not. Now when I feel low I try to remind myself of what I felt like then. I guess we always work in comparisons.

“Instead of contrasting our own happiness against our prior sadness, we contrast it against other people’s happiness and deem ourselves unhappy in comparison.”

I know that I have a tendency to place my happiness in other people’s hands. I know that you aren’t meant to do that. I know that it is something you should find within yourself. But am I so wrong to feel that it is other people that make me happy? I know the dangers of depending on someone for your happiness; I do it every single time I get into a relationship. I learnt the really very hard way what it feels like when that person takes your happiness away from you. But do I regret making myself that vulnerable? Of course not. There’s no point living life tentatively, in fear of getting hurt. It reminds me of people that always have their brightness down low for fear of their phone dying. These people PISS ME OFF. I am asking you to please see everything in its full colour, shining so brightly it hurts your eyes in the dark until it DIES and stop pissing about with this strangely dim backlight where you can barely make out who’s texting you. Deal with the death when it comes. Plug your phone into a wall. Don’t pre-empt it at the expense of intensity. Make yourself as vulnerable as your brightly lit phone by being the most vibrant.

Oh my god. Can you see where this is leading? I didn’t even mean it to and I’m going to end up saying ‘live life to the fullest’. Forget I even wrote that. See what I mean? I try comparing humans to telephones and I come out with a worn exposition on life.

ANYWAY. I guess the important thing is to remember to think about all the small things that make you happy, instead of trying to reach some omnipotent kind of happiness.

Iced coffee in the morning, matching underwear, a warm toilet seat, getting a new follower on Instagram, waking up to the smelly but perfect face of someone you love, finally peeing, the soporific sensation of the sun, freckles, catching your phone before it drops, dropping your phone and the screen not cracking, falling asleep after an orgasm, sex in the morning, food that doesn’t make you fat, food, a pen that works, not having to wash up, post-coital cuddling, waking up naturally, finishing a run (not the actual running), clean sheets, warm skin, clear skin, ice cream, driving with loud music, loud music, boys with good syntax, head massages, a cold beer, new clothes, compliments when I believe them, sitting on the floor of a hot shower, getting good results on something you didn’t try for, getting good results on something you did try for, tan lines, art studios, plants indoors.

“We are all to an extent existentialists and happiness is something we can cling to in an attempt to understand the absurdity of our surroundings. It is a non-religious hope. A non-ambitious goal. It is another intangible thing we have set up in this system in order to try and make sense of it all.”

Who cares if some of the things are superficial if they make me happy? I’m not trying to base the premise of my life’s happiness on each moment of temporary happiness. I just want to point out how there are many different kinds of happiness, and they are all valid.

After a day of trips to the fridge and examining my split ends (there are many) I have finally reached a kind of semi conclusion. That we are all, to an extent existentialists and that happiness is something we can cling to in an attempt to understand the absurdity of our surroundings. It is a non-religious hope. A non-ambitious goal. It is another intangible thing we have set up in this system in order to try and make sense of it all.

Right now? It still makes absolutely no sense whatsoever and I have no idea what I really want or how to get it. This is the dissatisfaction I talked about. The going to bed feeling like I just created a mess of questions that I can’t answer. So I guess for now, I’ll just settle for ice cream and sex in the mornings. And hope that the rest will sort itself out later.