How come the things that make you happy don’t make everyone happy?
A lot of things make me happy. Books. Disney characters. Tumblr. Good coffee. Holding hands with lovely people. My sparkly beautiful group of queers. Babies (particularly my adorable cousin Sebastian). Mezzo soprano arias. God. Skinny boys in suits. Red lipstick. Queer older couples. Flan Costello’s sticky floor.
Those things are not everyone’s taste (the latter particularly is the Marmite of Limerick.) Sometimes it’s frustrating when people don’t get it. Sometimes it’s frustrating to be out and about and be sick to shit of everything when everyone else is having the craic. But life would be boring if we were all enamoured with the same things.
There’s a balance to be struck. There is some sort of link between scarcity and desire – if I do the same awesome thing every day, I’ll probably start questioning its awesomeness, until I’m not able to do it for a while, then it will be great again. Even things that are only okay, seem so much better when I can’t do them. Just out of reach.
I’ve been trying to convince myself for years that it isn’t things and people that bring happiness. But it isn’t. Its us. Maybe that’s why none of us are the same.