The illusion of happiness. That thin veneer that you coat yourself with. It is made up of half hearted compromises and dreams that are kept on a shelf. You collect the drippings of hope and wish for them to turn into something real.
You look at colors and imagine them swirling around you and taking you on a ride across the galaxy where you can observe the stars and maybe sit on one. And get back stardust for yourself and everyone you love.
A light bulb that doesn’t fuse ever. Always floods your room with light. And when you put it in a pretty lampshade it makes nice patterns on your wall. It flickers and you want to cry. Because it is being fickle. The light, not your happiness silly. That is already an illusion.