The Price of Happiness

There are certain figures who inspire us profoundly — artists, philosophers, everyday warriors — who give us reason to believe that adversity may be overcome without losing momentum. That one may be ill yet radiant. Worn out yet standing tall.

And when they pass away prematurely, people talk about their ‘courage til the very end’, their ‘life force’ and a love so great it ultimately transcends the individual.

But too much courtesy turns grief into an energy transaction. We smile our tears away and gratefully embrace the pain. We say it is “the price of happiness.” As if it were normal. As if such radiant happiness, enjoyed for decades, could only exist at the cost of some inevitable sacrifice.

And no one ever asks, “Who actually collects the payment?”

We often believe that happiness is free. Or that we are entitled to it. Or that it must be earned through effort, patience and gratitude. But in reality, happiness is fleeting and impermanent. And most importantly, it comes at a price. And often, that price is paid later. Paid dearly. In sorrow. In loss. In regret. In consent.

This is the story of an artist I used to follow in my younger years, whom I will not name. Out of respect, but also because what matters is not WHO but WHAT. Besides, I don't want my approach to be misconstrued, or even construed at all. There is nothing to construe. Just a raw observation. The rest, the construing, is a matter of personal filter that belongs to the eye of the beholder.

This artist was exceptionally kind and considerate, which is quite rare in showbiz. He enjoyed a fairy-tale romance with his wife. The kind of love at first sight that one would only imagine possible in sentimental books or movies. Certainly not in an environment such as his. 

And they lived happily ever after and had two children…

For decades, he fought the disease with dignity and optimism. Hope and conviction until the very end. A man who stood tall and believed himself to be invincible. Big Pharma's miracle cure did not work. And this came as a shock to many. And a massive harvest of loosh for the Matrix, for whenever the righteous are victims of injustice, it shatters the false sense of security that our beliefs give us to cope with the uncopable.

What followed was a tidal wave of unconditional love, gratitude, and band-aid clichés: “He's still here with us... He's sending us a sign... He's not really gone.”

But the worst part was reading his widow's statement (a truly admirable woman), explaining how she always had a feeling that it was the price she was prepared to pay for the kind of love they shared. “I miss him truly madly deeply” she says. “ But that’s ok as grief is the price you pay for love.” 

Grief is the price you pay for love!

A quote that could be embroidered on a pillow, or etched at the bottom of an urn. But what this quote does not say is who sets the price. And who benefits from the transaction.

And then there are the tales. Those we hear as children. Those that paint such sweet promise as "they lived happily ever after and had many children."

It's cute. It's comforting. But one thing we can't see is the programmed expectation this kind of cliché entails. A mapped-out quest within a framework. And implicitly, a tacit contract that never questions the validity of the script. For everyone has heard it. Because it's part of the story.

And even before the story really begins, another cliché says it all (but hardly anyone pays attention since it's so clichéd): "Until death do us part."

Already, it's a giveaway of what the outcome will be: a planned separation. And when it does happen, we say: "It's normal. It was written."

Of course, we all have a programmed end. But what we are never told is that, in between the promise and the end, a harvest is taking place. And the harvester is not a person. Not even a god nor a system. It's a structure. A matrix. That feeds off the loosh generated by these stories we are being invited to play out and grieve while being grateful that “it could be worse”.

What if it could be better — much better? Would it be heresy? But for whom? And for what?

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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