Irrational happiness

"To  be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost".

— Gustave Flaubert

I find it quite hard to be happy. No, I'm not some overemotional, morose wreck wallowing in depression: this is just a logical conclusion that I have arrived at. 

The particular type of happiness I find elusive is not the good-natured joviality that gets one through the day— that I'm perfectly capable of expressing. The happiness that arises due to specific events is also well within my grasp. The brand of happiness that I have trouble with is the kind that is purely irrational; the kind that blissfully occurs for no particular reason. What especially irks me is the fact that this happiness is glorified: instead of questioning why we feel this inexplicable surge of joy, we plod along with it, content with merely experiencing it. 

Perhaps it is my scientific bent that makes me dislike this type of happiness: unless I have a specific reason to be happy, I see no use in displaying that emotion. If there was no stimulus, there should be no response. Why unravel such a beautifully coupled action-reaction pair? To me, irrational happiness rings false; it smacks of showiness and illusion. Much like hoodlums who adorn themselves with Gucci yet still collect welfare checks, the person who allows joy to creep upon him without reason is not being true with himself: it really is a sort of cognitive dissonance.

To be irrationally happy requires a remarkable amount of self-deception— one must somehow overlook the remarkably bleak trajectory of life:  the inevitable duress of coping with one's own mediocrity, the gnawing descent into physical decay, the disappearance of loved ones and, at the very end, the inescapable realm of nothingness itself. It's not a fun ride— as Woody Allen says, it's only enjoyable if experienced backwards.   

Again, I must stress: just because I find happiness distasteful does not mean I'm depressed; the absence of happiness is not its polar opposite, misery.  Instead, what takes its place is a sedated, placating sense of ease. It's not happiness, nor is it wretchedness— it's a lovely melancholic melange of the two. And it's served me admirably over the years— there are no ecstatic highs, but no debilitating lows either.