I was trying to draw and paint the face of happiness.
I wanted it to shine, to speak light — so I filled it with colors that sang. I brushed on gold, pink, and the softest shade of morning blue. I added shimmer to make it glow, a little music to make it dance. I wanted happiness to look perfect — bright, neat, and in order.
But the more I painted, the emptier it looked.
Something was missing — something I couldn’t name.
It looked cheerful, yes, but not alive.
So, I added more color, more symmetry, more light. Still, it stared back at me — flat, silent, like a smile without a soul.
Frustrated, I dipped my brush in gray, then in a darker tone — the color of rain and quiet. I made a small stroke across the cheek, like a shadow or maybe a scar. Then another — a blur where tears might have been.
And suddenly, the face began to breathe.
The shimmer now looked softer, the smile deeper — not perfect anymore, but real. The sadness gave it weight, and the imperfections gave it truth. I realized then that happiness has no face without the memory of sorrow. It borrows its light from darkness, its laughter from tears.
I put down my brush. The painting was uneven, unplanned, but alive.
It wasn’t the face of happiness — it was the face of being human.
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