Happiness is other people

The problem of living according to Sartre’s “Hell is other people”
philosophy is that it obliterates all the kindness coming your way.
It’s like thinking the other is a potential enemy,
instead of a potential friend.
I guess that, like most things in life, it is all a matter of perspective.

As he lights the last cigarette
I realize those demons will never truly disappear,
those clouds of sadness will never really dissipate.
I hope to see joy and hear laughter one day
But instead he gazes at the bridge, that elusive place nearby.
Close but at the same time a million miles away.

As I leave, heading towards the bay
I understand some things can’t be explained, only experienced.
“What are you doing here, boy?
Can’t you see there is no food? You have to go”, he remembers.
Somehow that hunger never went away.
“People are mean”, he says.
“Hell is other people, boy, people are mean.”

I drive through that road and I feel my heavy heart,
it forces me to stop.
I feel like I carry all the weight of that twisted world.
What a horrible history… why didn’t he ask for help?
That Hell never leaves his mind.
How I wish he could be happy… the beach is always near.
One day, maybe… a happy day.
As I arrive home I kiss her gently. She feels my sadness.
I let go a tear while she hugs me and whispers encouraging words.
Happiness is other people.