Definition no. 9

Definition No. 9

Happiness is a book.

The one I decided to write myself for the simple reason that it’s been years since I last found one book that would keep me passionate about it for longer than the first 100 pages. Either because the books were of short format or because my enthusiasm got lost somewhere in translation.

And I am sure this one will keep me interested to the end, simply because  it’s me the one writing it. Of course it will have good pages and great pages, of course I will be thrilled all the way through writing it! I am already conceiving it every day, in my head.

Well, it’s also true, I don’t have a plan, I don’t have a target public. I have just fingers on a keyboard and a huge heart that sees, observes and puts in limiting words a film of senses.

My happiness does not have a title yet.

It looks like a jewel, precious and intriguing, with a story between golden covers scripted in filigree. Its pages look like old yellowish leaves. They make a sweet sound when they are turned one by one. and they sparkle. They are covered in magic powder that sticks to your your fingertips for ever.

My happiness is to be consumed in small portions. Savory ones. Sweet, spicy, bitter, sour. They concentrate a life’s stories in explosions of tastes and perfumes. One will read them and will discover that somebody else had already written his/her story. And that he/she/you/me  are not different. There’s always something connecting us to The Other.

Today, my happiness is a book. My book. Your book.