the net worth of Life

I thought if only I worked hard enough, did enough reps, ticked off entire kilometers of tasks on my to-do list, got better, more, grandieuse, shining, demented, higher than life, a perfect automaton of execution of idiot tasks, if my sight only got sharper and fiercer, piercing through concrete brimmed with overwhelming HATE from occulted source, if my teeth would only rip aprt the fabric of structure of society with paranoid precision, in my schizoid percieved superiority, if every day I topped at least one brick higher on my ivory tower, overflowing with disgust towards the ones who didn’t work as hard as me, who weren’t perfect, like I was, stone-like, ghastly, vengeful, if only I killed enough concepts and presumptions with my gun brain, if only I went farther and further down the thick, musky, grand, gaping tunnels of rationality I’d WIN the happiness I’ve been longing for my entire life, because I DESERVED it, I was WORTH of owning something, my objectual, liquid, cash tangible and kissable and warm and usable and fuckable happiness.

Who knew you didn’t have to work for happiness? That, only when you stopped buzzing around your own tail of “must”-s and “have to”-s, you’d allow yourself to breathe in happiness and melt into the unrelenting gaze of happiness? The unrelenting gaze that was seeing you long before you’ve seen it. I was never told this; I was not taught this by my parents, my school, my self. Idiots. Big Money Idiots. Billionaire Idiotsa and Scientist Idiots and Nobel-Awarded Idiots. I have something some of you will never see. I own the prized diamond of a thousand billion infinte grand buck Dollars. I have it. I have it. I own it. I have the net worth of Life. Happiness.