We don’t even own ourselves.  Our bodies get sick, they get old, they die.  We don’t own shit.  We just inhabit our bodies, temporarily.  We don’t own a house.  It’s some bricks on the ground.  The ground might shake or be flooded or get taken away by some hostile tribe.  Ownership of anything is an illusion.  Using a thing to validate your self worth or lack thereof (look at my house, I’m special!), or a person (he thinks I’m great!) is bound to yield regret.

Happiness, as professed everywhere else, is the moment, the state of sharing a space, of having the opportunity to have an experience.  Nothing more, nothing less.


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