I'm happy that I tore myself away from the roofs under which one calls "home"; I'm happy that I've sought shelter in the comforts of what I call "home" a week ago. I'm happy with the company of three jovial roomies, in a room where I can always expect uproars of laughter after a long day. I'm happy to have fallen back on track with all of my classes, though monotonous and some just plain boring. I'm happy that my temporary wounds have mostly turned into scars, settling to permanence on the center of my knee, thus I can finally engage myself in some sports after a whole month of entrapment in those four walls. I'm happy to see the many familiar faces, all looking brighter than ever, as I walk to class; I'm happy to see even the unfamiliar faces, hoping the "homesick" faces that they pull will soon be turned into a genuine, happy smile.
I'm happy to hear the concerned voices of them from home every night before I sleep, but I just don't admit it.
I'm happy that in this new room, my best friend and I can stick our beds together every night for the whole term, just talking to our hearts' content - about anything, about everything. And already I'm missing this feeling, given a race against time is redundant.
I'm happy to have reunited with a long, lost friend - whom I confided in for positive energy, who opened my eyes to the kingdom of the Big Man called God, whose words that always, always, sent me to fits of endless laughters.
I'm happy at a lot of things. Some are left unspoken still.
So how is it possible that I'm still not happy...
At all?
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