Lips drawn tight to frame dry teeth, muscles aching. The smile that never quits. The laugh that makes your stomach sore. Too much of a good thing. The recoil is pain, exhaustion, unhappiness. Our minds and bodies attempt to correct the imbalance. The rubber band stretched to one side, snapping back in a moment of indecision. Where all the pleasant thoughts from the moment earlier come crashing in on themselves, crashing in on you. There is no such thing as true happiness, because the mind can't handle the strain. Can't handle the imbalance.
The holes around you, inside you, below you, above you. The puncture wounds I punch to ease my imbalance. The casualties of my inability to be truly, unquestioningly happy. Because if you are imperfect, then the rubber band around my soul stays just lax enough to keep from snapping. If I can break apart, then the scales won't ever tip. The muscles in my face will ease, my stomach will heal. And over time, I'll be able to fall into this stretched happiness once again.