It was the last day for a very long time that I would see that small, sad, dusty podunk Midwestern town I had laid tumultuous roots on years before. I spent the day trail running my old route in Hawthorn Park with John, and somewhere between sprinting the quarter mile hill we used to train together on and sitting in the sunlight for small talk and watermelon seeds, I realized that happiness isn’t actually a pursuit, that it isn’t something we strive to attain. At any given moment, there are things to be happy about, and things to be miserable about. But in that moment, my lungs warm and aching, the sunlight resting on my shoulders, laughing together about the ridiculous and the mundane, I knew that happiness was simply a decision that I was making right then, one that I could always make. That I was free, to feel this simple, uncomplicated joy, and return to it whenever I wanted. My life, my reality, was and always would be my own. And so I made the radical, controversial, absurd decision, to be happy.
Because, why not?