Happiness is Reserved for Those Who Do Not Think

Happiness belongs to those who live untroubled by thought. It is theirs alone—the ones who do not wonder, who do not ask. They pass through life like travelers with light luggage, unbothered by the weight of meaning.

They wake to the sound of birds and hear nothing but birds. I wake to the same sound and wonder how long birds have sung like this, whether they’ll still sing when I’m gone. They see the world as it is—bread as bread, water as water—and go on with their day. I pause at the sight of bread and think of how many hands it passed through, how the wheat grew, how the soil bore it, and who taught us to make it in the first place.

The ones who do not think are not lesser; they are simply freer. They carry no questions about life’s purpose, no grief for strangers they will never meet. War is not theirs to mourn. The universe does not demand their gaze. They do not concern themselves with the stars that no longer burn, or the rivers that will dry long after they are dust.

They laugh easily at jokes without dissecting their meaning. They love without the fear of impermanence—never sitting at the edge of their joy, waiting for it to vanish.

It is not their fault, this ease they carry. It is not mine, this weight I bear.

I do not remember when it began, this compulsion to think. To observe. To carry the world in my mind long after it has passed me by. I only know it is mine now. I sit with it, restless, watching as others move through the day—full, satisfied, content—while I pick apart the fabric of it all, thread by thread.

They are happy, not because the world is kind, but because they have chosen not to see. I cannot look away, and I’m not sure if I would want to.