“ I don’t know why we are here, but I am pretty sure it is not in order to enjoy ourselves.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein

I am in a train and the fucktard sitting in front of me is a living proof. As he continues to victimize a girl on phone, threatening to switch off if she doesn't behave, a smug smile spreads across his face. Life must suck for the poor girl. Heck, I look at myself and to be honest I can be used as a poster boy for the quote. Now don’t worry I am not about to begin a tear jerker about why I feel this way. You won’t be interested and that’d make two of us.

What I cynically conclude is that life in general is a bitch. Its out to get us, each and every one of us, and then destroy us in whatever way catches its fancy. And just to make things worse, just so that you don’t get too used to the pain and misery (that would spoil the fun), so that you don't give up, life throws in some moments of happiness. Happiness. What an idea, to be content and enjoy oneself, to revel in one's existence. Its also the biggest cause of all the agony we go through - To find happiness. Its like the proverbial carrot on a stick, only we are allowed to get the carrot sometimes, happiness.

So my contention is, when I am already condemned, doomed to suffer, why not devour the carrot when it comes to me? Live every tiny happy moment to the fullest as a fuck you to life. A message that even after all that it throws at me I can manage to be glad about my existence, even if for a small amount of time. That despite its best effort life has inadvertently given me what I need, that I refuse to provide it the sadistic pleasure and satisfaction that it hopes to derive out of my puny insignificant existence. I love the idea, makes me feel like a rebel, full of energy and enthusiasm. Like someone who refuses to silently endure, who takes a firm stand. Or maybe Happiness can be my heroin and I can live for it. Kick scream threaten beg steal, whatever it takes until the next shot. And then do it all over again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

A crazy enthusiasm fills me, a mad desire to tackle life head on. Its scary but at the same time its exhilarating. And then it dawns on me, probably you’ve spotted it already, the flaw in my argument. Even in my whining I am arrogant enough to believe that life would victimize me, as if it had nothing better to do, as if I was worth it. I am the poor innocent sheep and life is the big bad wolf. What if that’s not true? What if life is indifferent, apathetic. It’s a heavy burden to place oneself in open rebellion, and then go unnoticed. What if life was indifferent?