We Hate Things That Feel Happy In A Distant Way, In An Irremediable Way

Ernest Hemingway said, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken pieces.”

It breaks everyone like angry men breaks old vinyl records, like cranky adolescents smash lego houses, like mad musicians play until their instruments crack, like frustrated women break flower pots on empty Saturdays.

We break everything that is a reminder of our lost happiness. We hate things that feel happy in a distant way, in an irremediable way. Humankind can easily explain the hard times in five words, “It is in the past,” “everything happens for the best.”

But we can’t explain losing a happy thing to yesterday. We can’t live with the dead bodies of our beatific, molucules, and so we burn them. And then we are just sad, right?

I guess that’s what the world feels too. Are we pieces of its past glory? And does every broken piece poke us until we are proud of enduring its pain?

In the void of a whirlpool filled with fragments of mundane happiness. I can only care as much about me and the world. We are broken in many similar ways. And exactly where our broken edges touch, we are stronger.