People. Persons. The things they do. The change they bring in you. In however long a camera flash lasts, or the snap of a finger – whatever's shorter, yes.
Shorter than the wavelength of violet light? Perhaps.
In a deadlock, amidst a sandstorm. When you're stuck in a pool of black tar, or in quicksand. Or whether in rains, when you're standing at the edge of your door. People, or persons. That is the therapy. The key to the deadlocks that you thought couldn't ever be cleaned up. The vacuum cleaner machinery in the aftermath of a sandstorm. That branch from a nearby tree that will pull you out of the quicksand. The person who'll push you out and jump into the rain with you.
Do things ever get okay? Who knows; the journey is supposed to matter, right? I don't know. I think it's the smiles that matter. The ones you share, the ones you spread. The ones you pull onto your face, those when you see them on someone else's.
Happiness is not just a nine letter word. It is rarer than precious metals when you're seeking to dig them from the ground. Harder to find than a comet if you're looking at the night sky tonight. It's there when, well, it's there. And, dear God, I may not have described it well enough for the millionth time, but some moments will surely go lengths to tell you what I couldn't.
Oh by the way, could you divide that into two equal parts and then get it packed and ready to go?