Happiness ›
Again I’m trying to explain how all talk is slippery.
See, I might want to convey one thing—frustration, say—
but all that gets conveyed is some other thing—rage—my hand
coming fast, erratic, menacing.Who can say how a thing in words turns and flowers like that?
It happens.Now say I want to say to you happiness.
No motive. Nothing behind it.
Just the awareness of a valve suddenly opened and—
happiness!It’s in the lungs, the bones.
But somehow all you hear is I don’t need you.We’re in this room, and you’re not hearing
how I’m still trying to say this thing to you.I’ll say it again. Here. Happiness.
Elisabeth Frost
