One of my favorites. Reminds me of how vast and incomprehensible the world is, how trivial we are, and how infinitesimal a dent we make on universe in its entirety. It’s almost beautiful, the way everything is actually nothing.
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Learning & Un-learning
The weather and i have drawn ourselves into a parallel: peaceful and comfortable; not without its occasional bouts of insane winds but nothing that’ll topple me over where i am; in general sunny – the way i like it.
This is an update post, it will have no actual point but i will attempt to establish a unifying theme.
Doing this because i find myself, with age, increasingly discriminating especially in regards to reading and writing.
I used to read with complete abandon, devouring indiscriminately whatever wasn’t beyond the reach of my maws. Your diet doesn’t matter before sixteen, i like to think – so absolutely no regrets in my unhealthy consumption of literature great, bad, and downright awful. Later in life i find myself spending more time choosing what to read than actually reading. With whatever time i have i want to read something not merely halfway decent but WORTH IT. Explains my severely malnourished pantry of reads in recent years. Depressing, but not particularly worrying because i’m much too addicted to reading to ever quit.
Writing, on the other hand, requires not just time/effort but also that extraspecialspicysecretingredient chemical X that loves visiting at the most inopportune moments. The pockets of free time i have to write, i’m completely stuck. I stare at my screen and type-delete-type-delete, save draft, save it along with my rather prolific stash of half-done broken paragraphs and lonely sentences. I’m sorry. Typically, this post itself would have been flushed down along with my Prolific Stash, because this is Not one of my writing moments – and unless i write my best i’d rather not at all (yes i’m a closet Type A).
But today i came across a quote on Facebook i loved:
“Work finally begins when the fear of doing nothing exceeds the fear of doing it badly.” – Alain de BottonSure i’m rusty, but without cranking my writing arms more often without the stringent discrimination of work quality, i’m not gonna get my momentum. So here i am, in one of my Not Moments, writing.Un-learning discrimination.It is quite liberating. I crave writing, I always do – but the fear of looking back and thinking ‘ugh should not have posted that so redundant’ stands in the way. Not sure why i fear that because my ENTIRE ARCHIVES are made up of those (although i happily embrace my embarrassing, rambling, uncensored past).I’m more discriminating with my allocation of time to people, though. Not something i can or want to unlearn.For the past two days, met up with old friends.
PW group meeting with JT, BK and YQ. How is it that everyone is grown up but still the same? I find so much comfort in that – the fundamental stability of traits i’ve come to depend on in my friends. Those undefinable, complex traits i’ve taken two years to slowly learn and can never unlearn or explicitly explain. YQ asked in his classic YQ fashion if five years later we’d still bother to keep in contact. I answered yes and really meant it. YQ’s serious-flippant respond is irrelevant here, i just want very much to remind myself that yes i want to still be in the lives of all the friends i’ve made in that time of my life.
Yesterday had dinner with D, Manda and JR. Debbie and i had time together before everyone else arrived, reminded of those hours and hours we spent before during and after school. How did we have so much time? The ease of our conversations and those spaces between words we save on because we already know what each other are thinking… those are also things i’ve picked up through my years with D and cannot possibly unlearn, am grateful to know that.
On another note, this semester i’ve come to realize myself as a Psych student.Find myself genuinely excited about things i learn (which i once did before prior to entering Uni and having learning anchored to concrete assessment systems), and actively applying across all domains (other psych modules, my life, my friends’ lives, my other humanes modules). If i weren’t taking a physics module (for USP) this semester, it would be me studying everything i love. But i’m not complaining, and i like that i’m studying something (COMPLETELY AND DISGUSTINGLY) beyond my comfort zone (I HAVE NEVER TAKEN PHYSICS BEFORE WHAT AM I EVEN). BUT I LIKE IT. I like being challenged because i’m that kind of annoying student who is actually ~*passionate*~ about learning. Unabashed one at that.Seriously though. Finally carving out a seemly space for myself in my major. Equal parts relieved and excited. Still not exactly sure what i’ll do with my life, but i’m doing what i love and have faith that things will eventually work out.That’s all for now. Hello welcome back rambling, pointless, potentially embarrassing redundant posts. Sorry everyone. My space, my prerogative.
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新年 2014
新年 is waking up to fresh sheets pulled taut and smooth under my calves; crisp corners flanked wide by spring cleaned walls; red-hatted gold filled tins strategically sitting where the 7am sun first slant across. It is the comfort of tradition, the kind of joy derived from childish assurance that breakfast would be fried mee sua and clothes would be new. It was also, for me, a chore.
As a child I had always been fraught with social neurosis — I loved people but my interaction with them were crypted within complex, self-constructed rules and principles, especially if it involved a crowd where I am member not performer. In particular, I didn’t like the idea of being obliged to pay respects to elders.
With my compulsion, bolstered by the general brooding of my teen-hood, I went through several bad starts of CNY having my parents coerce me into paying respects to them (tradition dictates this was the first thing we did every morning of 初一). It was rather fortunate that the embarrassing emotional volatility of my teen-hood was also characterized by its transience – I got over my neurosis fast enough if provided sufficiently with sugary decoys in the form of pineapple tarts and kuih bangkits.
This 新年, my first as an adult, all that’s left of that mortifyingly awkward child is an opaque hash of remembered words I’ve just spilled above as a final purging.
I woke up ready – excited even – to go through the whole works. I wanted to recite those once well-rehearsed phrases now thickened with the rust of my unused mandarin tongue, I wanted to offer every house guest at least one round of all our new year snacks with the relentlessness of a Singaporean auntie, I wanted all these not even for the ang pow – although I hoard them with manic delight, but purely to revel in the lunar new year like the shiny-faced enthusiastic Chinese I have been possessed by.
A recent discussion with a friend regarding the absurdity of Chinese beliefs surrounding festivals realized a conclusion: that the Chinese come up with crazy stories to justify their consumption of decadent food all year round. We eat sticky rice dumplings stuffed with pork because we didn’t want fishes to feed on a popular guy who drowned. We have huge, dense cakes because some lady flew to the moon. We need glutinous balls in syrupy soup to affirm our existence as a family unit. We stuff our faces and demand money because the metaphor for Year has taken the form of an ancient, Asian bed intruder.
That aside, though, I’m beginning to grasp the shape and nuances of these festivals. We have them because family, and as an adult one of the few things I’ve come to understand more is the importance of family. This new year I was excited to meet all my relatives, even the ones I’ve just seen the day before. I was excited to have them together, happy, bright, and new. For the Chinese, the new year is everyone’s birthday — in a weird way I can appreciate that: we are celebrating the birth of each loved relative, and celebrating our 缘分 of being streams converging into the same river when we could have easily meandered over to the vast otherly oceans.
Look at me now, using nature as a literary device. Never have I felt so oriental. :’-)
This new year was also special because it was the first of which I’ve brought a boy along. You can bring countless boys home – but the real deal is the one who takes the stage on 年初一. I have to applaud J for handling the intimidating barrage of mandarin and persistent boisterous teasing well. It is sometimes overwhelming for me and I was inducted into this frenzy at birth. I can’t imagine how he survived it armed with minimal conversing prowess, but he did.
初二 初三 was devoted entirely to family visiting, meet-ups, and meals – including a brief one with the motley crew of girls I’ve come to take as my family, because I want to kill them sometimes but I know deep down that I’m stuck with them for life.
Looking into subsequent CNYs has never been easier, although in past years every constant promised by the festival was robustly delivered. But this time round I could almost conceive of myself on the giving end of ang pows eventually. It was rather morbid, but heartening all the same, to realize that every Chinese new year would feature a very subtle difference in people over the decades – because mortals grow and come and go – but that from our vantage point nothing would be broken, just the family, as always.
新年 remains an obligatory duty, yes, but undertaken with much willingness and contentedness in the knowledge that every year it would be the same streams, the same river, the same family.
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27th Jan: GERBS, YOU ARE MUCH LOVED.
Tbh, this is something I’d love to do anytime – but your 21st is the least creepy occasion on which I can dedicate a post to you SO HERE IT IS BITCH.
EAT YOUR FACE You were right, it is incredibly difficult to find a photo of just us together. This took a proper amount of ruthless cropping. BUT IT DOES NOT MATTER, because it depicts just how strange our friendship is.
And it really is strange, right down to its ambiguous beginnings. While you shared a class or a church with most of the others, our acquaintanceship was built entirely and solely on having studied in a close proximity. Although wildly dodgy in its own way, it’s one of the most, most fortunate random occurrences in my life – i mean it!
Although you think of yourself as an awkward child (ok you and everyone else), frankly you’re one of the most adaptable person i know. In an understated, non-obnoxious manner, you make anyone you speak to feel both comfortable and interested. I’m guessing it’s not often that someone describes you anything contrary to awkward, but you do really have a way with people – something i’m always grateful for because it led to our (now) 6 years of friendship (!!!). This is evident in the sheer number of close friends/cliques you have who adore you.
Thank you for being such a quietly loyal friend – like the fierce but loving pet gerbil you are. For all the times I needed someone for sound advice or to rant to. Thank you for being down-to-earth. You’re the one I can depend on to give the most unbiased counseling consistently. Also thank you for trusting me with your own troubles/tears/angst you wouldn’t have shared with anyone else.
Thank you for for being firm with us when we need it, for screwing our all-over-the-place exploding heads back on. Frankly if we were to collate how many times we feel like punching someone in the Mugs, i am pretty confident that you’d be the least punched. THANK YOU FOR TAKING ALL OUR NONSENSE.
Although our photos together are annoyingly intruded by the rest, I can remember so well the times we’ve spent just together. Sitting around at Serangoon Macs trying to study, feeling dumb under the wrath of Maran, late night sleepovers trading secrets in the dark (and my subsequent outburst and your mortification), trading eye-rolls when a Mug does something silly, experiencing God together at Awaken, and so so so much more.
All these years together and you’re now this hipster chio adorable butterfly, who’s all shades of cool that I am not. Still, you’re always there – like a bug I can’t squish. As a person you’re someone I’m in constant awe of – your stable state of mind, your maturity, your ~*style*~. As a friend you remind me of just how blessed I am – who else would sneak in a whole assortment of snacks under my bed just because I complained they cost too much?
Beni, continue being the incredible person and friend you are. I love you so, so much and can’t wait to be there cheering you on when you make it big in this world which I’m sure you will.
AI NI DUO DUO DUO <3
PS: Gong xi fa cai!
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21st
If my 20th was the tepid horror of spilling over my teenage years, 21st would be an irenic – if a little grudging – acceptance of change.
This year was a little different. For all the years of elaborate birthdays – from water balloon fights to double bluff surprises and faked injuries – I wanted a quiet, stress-free day. It took some effort to convince (rather inadequately) my mom and aunt that nope, I wouldn’t be needing that chalet or function room, that all I want is to sit down with the people I love with good food like we always do.
On the 18th my huge family got together and I was initiated into adulthood with my grandparents’ special occasion prawn mee and a very touching pool of gifts. That they had not only taken the trouble to mull over what I’d like, but went to such lengths to make sure I do (“I searched all over the island for this Pandora charm!”) that really reminded me just how blessed I was, and how much my family meant to me.
Cute collages my aunt made 
Grateful On the 19th the mugs planned to Safra as we did a couple of years back, as a last attempt to recapture some youthfulness. I woke up with old bones and an octogenarian constitution, and so cancelled jungle gym last minute. Instead, we sat around a familiar neighborhood just chillin’, as we always do. It was so simple, but almost perfect. All it needed was 3 more of us to carted back to Singapore to complete the set.
On the 20th – the day between Justin and my birthday, we lazed around for half a day, and then spontaneously went to Wild Wild Wet. It was probably the best decision we’ve made that week – there was nothing quite like being swept along the lazy river on a supposed school day; and nothing quite like free-falling down river slides to remind yourself of your mortality just as you enter real life. On the 21st after school J’s parent’s brought us to Tony Roma’s where we exercised our carnivorous inclinations.
Just about sums up our relationship. I’m very grateful for everything, everyone. Most years, birthdays go by with me marveling at the cloud of festivities. This year, I spent it marveling at all that I have and undeserved love I have from so many. Thank you all who messaged me, who met me, who have made plans to meet me, who were there for me not only on my 21st but throughout my 21 years – I love you all, and I love my life. :->
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Letters to my Child, #1
Before anything: Mommy loves you. I have loved you before I knew you, and I’ll love you regardless of who you are or who you will be after today. My love for you is instinctive, even irrational, and at a depth I have yet to understand at this time of writing.
Mommy is at the cusp of adulthood. Soon, taxes, carpool schedules, and weekly grocery stock ups will be my main preoccupations. I suppose that would be the Mommy you know. Right now, though, the vast rye field of childhood is still visible from across the moor of my teenage years.
Beyond here I pass through a fence where idealism takes on the connotation of foolishness; getting away with mistakes will no longer be a privilege of mine. I will catch myself inexplicably calling out to you: “don’t run around”, because that is what good mothers say, because that is what we’ve heard adults say while growing up.
What I really want is for you to run as much and as fast as you want, while you can. Run and fall down, it doesn’t matter. Mistakes are your privilege now, because I’ve taken up the baton to clean up after you, as my parents did for me.
So before I yell “don’t run around” and actually mean it, I want to tell you everything you ought to know at a stage where I would still make sense to you, and where you would still make sense to me. Firstly, and one of the most important things you need to know, is that I am fallible.
I am so fallible. If I raised you right, you would not only know that Santa isn’t real, but also that he is an annoyingly Western-centric conception. In lieu of that (rather inconsequential and trivial, I’m sure you would agree) nasty realization, I have to give you another one – a harsher truth to digest, sure, but a necessary one:
Most of the time I have no idea what I’m doing. I try my best everyday. I get stressed, I am sometimes angry. I have ugly thoughts. I do things I tell you not to do. There were probably several instances I should have apologized to you but didn’t. Sometimes I use my status as a parent for selfish means, maybe at your expense. The advice I give you are my own approximates of what I think is best (which may not be the best).
I can only hope that I haven’t failed you (too much) yet; that the illusion of parental perfection is chipped away proportionally to the development of your maturity. I need you to know this because it would be then easier to forgive me for anything I may do or not do, and trust me forgiving spares you more than it does the person you forgive.
This is the first of the many things I want to tell you, also a more difficult one because Mommy likes tackling the bleaker stuff first. 先苦后甜。Your grandpa taught me that and if I did it right, you’d have picked this up too.
Today Mommy is young with great skin and tiny boobs. Are they now bigger from breastfeeding? One of the less horrific byproducts of childbirth I am looking forward to. You will feel squeamish having just read that, but live with it. I love you! *kiss*
Mom, 17th Jan 2014, Letter #1
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Leaving home / Back to campus
Monday morning I woke up missing having nowhere to go.
I pack hastily but efficiently: I’ve gotten good at that, it is a byproduct of when home constantly changes its shape and meaning.
That morning it was just me and my popo. Her daily routine has a lithographic space within mine. I recognize the shift in her breathing as she stirs awake, the soft jangle of jade and silver against her wrist when she turns down the covers, the notes of caffeine from her daily brew.
In this pocket of time I’ve learnt when to cut across rooms and how long I have to fumble for clothes, masking the squeak of my wardrobe door under a gurgle of boiling water as she prepares her coffee. I’ve developed the skills of one-man espionage, learning her habits so well I can go virtually unnoticed by her in a modestly sized apartment if I wanted to.
And I wanted to. I like leaving alone.
In my old house, I rose first on weekdays and left before anyone did. Back then my route didn’t take me anywhere near the rest of my family. Those mornings were mine, and I loved it. I padded stealthily around taking in everything in vivid detail: my own thoughts, the temperature, and the furniture that seem to take on a larger purpose of its own when still unused before the day begins.
Those were the easy times alone I’d hoard every day before the madness of school, where it was difficult even to portion out enough attention for each friend, much less your self.
When I moved in with my popo, these times got harder, but I managed to carve them out all the same.
That morning, I managed to. But at the door, wholly ready, my espionage-level understanding of my grandma backfired. If I were to slip out through the gates without a word, trimming off the fat of fuss and hassle from her I so meticulously avoided, I knew exactly what would happen.
Popo, in all her octogeneriac vigor, would flit from room to room, peering in for my familiar shape sprawled across the bed or on the couch jabbing away at my phone. That image broke my heart.
Buoyed by sudden courage/conscience, I swallowed the sour of selfishness and yelled out a goodbye, hoping to make my way far enough before she had time to accost me with additional interrogation (去哪里？为什么这么快要回去了？婆婆要跟你去吃饭勒！)/reminders for general well-being (要带冷衣！那把雨伞！吃早餐先!)
I have, of course, underestimated my popo’s moxie when motivated by concern for grandkids. At an almost inconceivable speed she was at the door, the whole time screeching for me to wait up.
The interrogation/reminders, as fully expected, came in squalls.
Escaping this takes two parts dismissiveness, a part of firmness, and a final whisk of well-timed smiles and nods and “orh!”s. With that I took off, bearing the fuss, turning back to wave at her/wave her off. Both.
My popo shrinks perceptibly but strains to amplify her self in her desperation to get me to slow down. Clutching at the steel gates her head yearns towards my direction, in her typical soprano she repeatedly shrieks 几时回来？
Not exactly the sight I want to see just as I move out for the semester.
I don’t know how to explain to her that my reluctance to answer that: when I’ll be home, is not just a careless disregard of her concern. I don’t want to answer her because it’ll be awhile until I do, and it pains me a lot more than it does for her to be reminded of that.
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December 2013
December holidays in college are often way, way, WAY too short. Just as I’m done catching up and settling in with people and places , it’s time to go back again.
That said, at least I’m done with the catching up, aided mostly by the flurry of festivities that necessitated meet-ups.
This holiday was mainly food, books, new-found abilities and shopping (!!!) – also a little bit of running (my favorite non-indulgent/inexpensive hobby), at least before I fell deathly ill (allow me the exaggeration, it goes well with it’s very timely occurrence right before 2014).
So, what I read. Didn’t read much, but I read consistently. I found myself always in the midst of a novel, or else smoothly diving into another (I can’t read books simultaneously!). 1Q84 & HP7 took up the bulk of it, really.
1Q84 was addictive, a feat considering how bloody long the entire trilogy was. The most striking stylistic element of 1Q was its weaving in of completely irrelevant points of mundane life. They carry no conceivable symbolism or contribute to the plot in any way, and are just there to stretch the length of the novel. You’d think that’ll make the progress tedious, but it was in fact strangely enjoyable. The ending was unsatisfactory in that not everything was fully explained – but if you’ve read my reviews you’d know about my weird adoration of abrupt and unresolved plot endings. So I’d say trudging through it was pretty worth it for me. Not the best Murakami but definitely not his worse (at its cheesiest, most Americanized, gimmicky pits).
Amy Tan’s been my favorite author since I began reading books beyond Enid Blyton and Beverley Cleary, so when I heard she was releasing her next novel after a SIX YEAR LONG LITERARY HIATUS I was BEYOND excited and pre-ordered it on BookDepository. But I knew it would disappoint. It was a gut feeling – with past experience and extensive reading of the Amy Tan ‘s complete work as a scaffold – that she had reached and passed her prime. So when Valley of Amazement failed to amaze, I was prepared. It does have it’s solid moments, but it felt rather like hardcore Amy Tan reader, familiar with her style and themes, writing in her stead.
After Valley of Amazement my Amy Tan thirst was yet to be satiated, so I went for a reread of The Hundred Secret Senses, the first of hers I’ve read. Loved it and still do. I love reading books from my childhood in progressing checkpoints of my life. Every reading yields a new perspective, and sometimes I find my evaluations of certain issues brought up divergent with my previous ones.
It’s Kind of a Funny Story was a short and refreshing interim, finished within a day. I picked this up after a few good reviews online. It’s about a kid with depression who checks himself into a mental ward. I liked it because it kept real to the pov of the protagonist’s age and temperament, and was frankly pretty informed about the reality of mental disorders. As opposed to the dramatic, dark, swirling, fragmented world as portrayed by The Bell Jar (although yes, some cases do go there). All in all, it didn’t piss a psych major off, so I guess it has succeeded.
Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha was pulled out from the depths of Justin’s drawers, after I found out the disturbing secret that he actually reads. He recommended it – and given the recent shocking discovery that he doesn’t not read but is just too discerning to read anything that isn’t great – how could I not give it a try?!? Fortunately for him it was a brilliant piece of literary – underrated, unpretentious, subtly heartbreaking and darkly humorous… kind of like Justin. I’m kidding.
Everything else was a reread. I’m getting less adventurous with my reading because I’m afraid of investing effort and emotions into crappy novels.
Caught of with my bests this holiday. A lot of it was spent with my Popo. Living away from home made me appreciate her that much more. I realized that she’s the family member I see and depend on the most, even despite her active social life and singing performances/classes. She somehow always makes time to cook or clean up after me. This time round I thought we should spend some quality time doing things we both love, which is really just shopping. We shopped. A lot.
Also had Cat back in town with us this time round. Love her even though sometimes I can’t understand her with her thickly laden ‘murken accent.
I’d have loved to meet up with everyone more. If I had the time, I want to have a nice sit down with everyone, just two or three at a time, and have those long, long conversations about anything we want. Now too often we have other places to go and things to do. I still remember those hours after school spent with Gloria sitting around anywhere that wouldn’t chase us away, talking our hearts out about everything and nothing in particular.
Went out with JR, Deebs, and JY early in the month but no photos were taken so here’s one from early 2013. They made me miss A16 a whole lot, too. It reminded me of just how many other friends I’m missing but missed out on outings with, always with the convenience reassurance that “there’s always June”. The CAP bunch, all the Hwach people, and the overseas kids who aren’t available for me to hunt down. I can’t help now that school is drawing close but regret not squeezing out just a couple of hours to see their faces.
Still, Christmas and New Year’s with loved ones, how can I still complain?
This holiday I also uncovered a redundant but amusing ability of mine to make art with my left hand. So the thing is I was born a leftie, but switched a right. Although I’ve always begrudged my parents for depriving me of my natural hand-stincts, I guess it does get cumbersome for lefties because MAJORITY WINS and most tools are catered to rights. So anyway I was experimenting, and found that while I could write relatively decent with my left hand, I could somewhat draw with it too (unexpected)!!!
Spent a few days sharpening my left-handed doodling skills, and there was definitely a marked improvement, although I went stagnant shortly after the watercolor art, which was penciled in by the left and painted by the right.
At the start of every holiday I’d hope to achieve something I hadn’t before. Mission accomplished!
In just a day it’s back to school. I feel again like a primary two kid refusing to return, thinking that primary one was just a temporary interlude to an otherwise free childhood. But ah, reality. Sem 2s are always difficult. You’re still weary from the previous semester, and there’s a whole chunk of it left to go.
Hm. :-(
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#4: Cover of my biography
4. What would the cover of your biography (presumably written by somebody else who never knew you, postmortem) look like?
A slim, pocket-sized paperback. Matte surface, white with a red spine.
In unfussy black font, “Just read her online.” across the cover, followed by a gratuitous selfie (or an unflattering shot taken by someone else).
Because honestly anything about me I’m okay with making public… is already made public. WordPress/Facebook/Twitter/Insta/Tumblr.
Thanks.
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#3: Is Happiness a Delusion?
3. Is happiness a delusion? Is happiness only real when shared? Why or why not?
That’s actually 2 questions, but ok.
Is happiness a delusion? As a psych major I should be telling you that happiness is a well-timed, balanced interplay of neurotransmitters – so I’d say it’s both a delusion (if you’re the ~*spring of happiness from the depths of your soul*~ sort), and not (albeit a biologically phenomenon).
Personally, happiness isn’t a delusion because I have experienced it. I think we all have delusions about happiness, but happiness itself is not one. My approach to happiness is pretty cognitive.
The common delusions we have about happiness is that:
a) Once we have it, it’s ours to keep
False. Happiness is transient. I think we all diligently hoard happiness – every form and moment of it – hoping that one day we can enjoy complete happiness all at once.
Part of being truly happy, however, is acknowledging that each manifestation of happiness is purest as it comes and goes.
Sometimes different joys overlap, others leave a depressing hiatus before the next: no single joy lasts, but it always comes again. Between those we have hope.
b) We need to pursue it as an end point
Quite like hoarding, a lot of us embody the notion of 先苦后甜 – working hard so we can enjoy what we reap later in life. But happiness can occur anytime and anywhere, it doesn’t wait for you while you work your ass off and turn away from it. Sometimes happiness is just contentment within the given moment.
c) It just comes as an emotion, beyond human control
While we work towards happiness, we often passively wait for happiness to just… happen. To me happiness is equal parts instinctive emotion as it is cognitive effort.
There will always be worries/foils to happiness in the larger, more complex landscape of life. Say someone throws you a surprise party, but you just failed your semester. How you feel in this period of time is largely determined by how you orientate your outlook.
This is something I truly believe in – that happiness is very much within your control, despite of or in addition to external conditions. Of course, neurobiology plays a huge a part too. Neurotransmitters may trip up your ability to cognitively align yourself with happiness; genetic factors may predispose you to pessimism.
I’m either lucky or very simple, because contentment comes easy for me. I’m not exceedingly ambitious, and I take (perhaps too much) joy from the smallest of things.
So, no, happiness is not a delusion, and is more easily attained than many of us believe.
Is happiness only real when shared?
Um, bullshit? Happiness can definitely be amplified. When two people share a common joy, it’s more likely to be expressed and articulated. Like an echo chamber it bounces back and forth as a magnified reminder: acting out your happiness actually makes you happy (and this is a legit psych thing, add in-text citation here).
But many times happiness is an individual happening, because they are tailored to our very personal definitions and standards of happiness. Sometimes, even, happiness is selfish. Even with a loved one you love (especially with a loved one), your happiness can be a trade-off for theirs.
So, nope. Real happiness does not have to be shared.
Q 