That notwithstanding I will still make the case that happiness is largely soporific banality. You can do better if you want. You might not. That’s okay if that’s what you want. For my part, I could mostly care less about happiness except when it’s a reprieve from real life. I want as few reprieves as possible.
I think it’s not just because happiness has largely evaded me because I don’t understand its pursuit but also because I’m pretty sure that it bores me, much like most meditation. I would rather be fired up in a testy conversation, confused by great poetry, reeling in good music, bothered by injustice, or confounded (always) by love. If we love we grieve and that is hardly ever happy, or is it? The question is more interesting if happiness isn’t the point.
I pursue discomfort with such avidity that I am usually bored shitless by the time I say what I have just thought or figured out. It’s why dozens of manuscripts sit on my hard drive about 80% done. I get no real satisfaction from the finished product, I like the work abut I especially like the work when it is failing me, when I can’t quite get it right, when it makes me frustrated, angry, or scared. I can’t be comfortable in love. I can’t be interested unless I’m being challenged or recognize a conflict.