Why be happy?

Every day is, thankfully a new day. But to say that seems to be buying disastrously into conventional phrases intended to promote positivity. Disastrous because every positive notion you dare to have can be a contract accepted with the devil conglomerates that have set up the positive node of the universe in an attempt to mask the truth of negativity.

Believing something positive has always scared me. Now, when I attempt to wonder why that is so, I figure it's probably because I seem to have to mistrust the prevalance of any desirable situation. Maybe the persistently consistent phenomenon of 'good things coming to an end' (to use a normally used phrase) has created a conditioning within the brain that a good thing eventually, invariably, leads to the end of it. And the end of such good situations, in my case, mostly tend to mean that I'm left in a state of utter dissonance, for when my 'good situation' -- not having been an ambitious one to begin with -- dies, it leaves in its wake sheer desolation, much like when a cob of maize is snatched away from a starving Ethiopian toddler (As it stands, he can only ever toddle at best. Now, on top of that, he has been robbed of the single object upon which he had relied to aid him in sustaining the delusion that he did not actually live amid vultures waiting to graze upon his abandoned spleen at the slightest drop in his pulse-rate.) A sordid existence, I would ask you, if I were looking for sympathy.

Another cause for being scared of believing something positive, or enjoying a pleasant time of anything, is that the time spent wallowing in a pool of happiness and contentment could mean that you are ill-advisedly eating up your chances at redemption. Or, to stretch the point into a stronger depiction of truth, to surfeit in a period of extended mental analgesia must mean that you have dipped your beak into some elixir for which payment would be extracted. And all that you, having no skills nor ability to create something of value with which to pay your creditor, can do to balance the books, is to pay through your own enslavement or divesting yourself of a chunk of your soul (whatever a soul may tangibly refer to, in metaphoric reference it refers to that which you cannot do without; the lack of which leads to feelings that make you wish you'd been bald so as to escape having to tear your hair out by the handful).