On Happiness and Strokes of Luck


Summer weather in New York fluctuates with the frequency of an indecisive lover, always hovering at the postal office with a love letter worn in the corners from being gripped so anxiously. The allusion is off, because nowadays one sexts with no afterthought, but the gist is otherwise clear. The windows at Gasoline Alley are open, letting the breeze coyly fuck up my hair. I don’t mind. 

As is, I was critically re-reading my posts, mainly tutting unhappily at them. Their existence, it seems, direly depended on some prevalent melancholy. It could be attributed to the underlying whims of my personality, or the winter-induced blues (which I had sermonised about inordinately.) Regardless, apart from the natural tendency to be mildly glum at all times, the woe is gone. While maybe not the most exciting statement, I had been perplexed for weeks.

Jane Birkin Directed by Pierre Grimblat

Such loyal happiness is like arbitrarily functioning luck. Maybe the sequential strokes of luck as such are what actually confuses me. Quick to attribute unreasonable miracles to the mystical notion of luck, I’ve found myself referring to it recursively, as if it and I were just mates and now are madly in love. It is the slightly vague and yet the only reasoning, necessary to my rationality.

A jovial easiness, strung by good books and coffee, nice people and lots of getting-shit-done, punctuated by front-rowing gigs, conversing with Lou Doillon, snagging opportunities and absurdly avoiding trouble while causing so much is just the deflated version of my spring.


I try and reason with myself, and name it the thing of New York. The directionless scope of possibilities New York has is an acceptable cliché, because it’s only the truth.

I’ve been front row at dreamy gigs, met the raddest people, snuck into speakeasies, walked around fancying myself some beatnik poet. Frivolous at the idea that this was a weekend activity, and I was bound to have my mind blown again come Saturday. I was inspired as only the profane effects of Benzedrine seem to inspire, by things grand and superficial alike. The current wind catering its tender fingers through my hair, the vagaries of everybody passing by and through the coffee shop I occupied. The coffee too, was the best. My art professor, who kindly referred to me as a creature of aesthetic, would call it just that. The colours, places, events, and vagaries, and sounds, the fusion of which catalyzed my inspiration. That in turn, was the only ingredient necessary to sabotage my hindered productivity. And happiness, essentially, is in and an accomplishment.


Ridiculously tongue-tied and superficial, I command an introspection of my happiness. Its a riddle and can only be articulated as absurd, shite poetry. It’s maybe well deserved, a visitor with good intent and even better intonation, dictating ideas to me. I share ruefully but vaguely, because happiness is personal. I hope it doesn’t disintegrate due to a case of kairosclerosis. Both inspiration and happiness, intertwined and interdependent, are aligned by various unknown entities of my life. The surreality is nice.


–  Alice Pylypenko


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