Is your job supposed to make you happy? Or is it your home-life? Or is it a combination of the both? Are we meant to be happy with everything? Or are we meant only to be happy with ourselves? Are you supposed to be happy with your room, or your house or the colours you picked out for your bathroom? Is it the street you’re on and the neighbours you’ve found yourself between? Is it your ability to flip an egg or tell when a roast is done? Is it the time you wake-up at every morning? Or the speed in which you can get out the door? Is it how far you ran yesterday? Or that you can run at all? Is it having friends? Is it knowing you like your friends? Is it having money to go out? Or knowing you don’t feel like going out? Is it having a closet of clothes? Or a machine to wash them? Is it pots and pans and things and stuff? Or is happiness found in a good deed? Or is it in making another person smile? Is it knowing you won’t see war tomorrow? Or the next day? Or is it in knowing your fridge is full of food? Is it being able to drive a car? Or walk down a street with a friend? Is it taking a plane to a far away land? Or is it the job that let’s you afford this escape? Is it being able to repeat yourself without persecution? Or is it having friends that keep you sane? Is it access to education? Is it knowing when to fight? Is it not having to fight? Is it not having to know anything about the world around you except what makes you smile? What makes you happy in this world? And how do you know it’s not a lie?