To have a wonderful day and not have anyone to tell about it is a tragedy. We rarely remember our days for how they felt but how we told the story. If there’s no one to tell the story to, the days fade into nothingness. Most of your days will fade into nothingness. To tell someone about the tiny pleasures, the large wonders, and given they have the time, everything in between—that is all we need. Most happiness begins and ends the moment this happens, the moment you share it with someone else. That is the only function of happiness: sharing.
Nothing is more irksome than the moment when you feel nothing but umpteen joy, and you cannot find anyone to tell the story to. It is why we click pictures. It is why we must share them with others, no matter how blurry the picture is, irrespective of how it may capture but a smidge of the glory, and on most occasions, fail to do even that. It is not the picture that is beautiful; it is what you say about it, how your eyes glow up, how you go into a craze of the memory. It is in those things that the purpose of a picture is fulfilled. Everything else is high, elitist art—no one understands or cares about it. All else is a selfish, meaningless pursuit. It is the poor pictures that make the most sense. They show the urgency; they capture the moment.
As I sit here by myself, ruminating on a beautiful sunrise I witnessed from over thirty-thousand feet in the sky in the brightest version of my life, I think of the pleading. I think of how I begged and said I needed some time; I think of how true it all was, of how true it had always been. Just some time and trust is all most people ever need. Many have to beg for them; few ever receive them; things happen regardless, and life goes on anyway. The only change is in who is there to watch them along with you. The only difference is who you share the stories with and who gets the blurry picture of a sunrise. Pain is easy to share; it makes for good poetry. Life is all about sharing happiness; it is about who you share it with.