Joy is an invention.

I used to just live. Happy.

On the playground I scored goals.

After school I swam.

Some days brought surprises,

Like us going to the beach,

Or waking up to Christmas gifts. 

Something was too far in the future,

if it was more than one world cup away.

I thought that was it.

Could not really spell ‘life’,

But it meant something. 

Something like a happy story, 

Continuously printed,

Along the axis of time.

One day the teacher said:

‘I see with my eyes, I hear with my ears.’

‘I smell with my nose, I think with my brain.’ 

I asked my dad what it meant to think,

Not knowing that in just four world cups,

I would be labelled an over-thinker.

‘When you’re in front of the goal, you shoot.’ 

‘When you’re too far you pass. right?’

‘That’s thinking.’ 

Sometimes as I brushed my teeth,

I reckoned that I was thinking of moving my arm that way. 

I hated waking up from beautiful dreams,

And sometimes questioned whether this realm,

The one in which I am writing this poem,

Wasn't a dream too. 

If I had to think to be able to kick the ball,

Then the goalkeeper had to think about saving it. 

My friends had to think about celebrating the goal, 

My father had to think, before saying ‘good job’.

The sun had to think before setting for the day.

The wind had to think before turning into a gust. 

Someone had to think to build this wonderful world for us. 

Who was that person?

I​ just wanted to score a goal.

Why did ​they​ do it?

Life became a domino arrangement,

Of thoughts and reasons. 

Sometimes I closed my eyes,

Thinking of what could have been,

If the first domino never existed.

Then I thought of nothingness.

I saw darkness. Emptiness.

I always reached a certain depth,

Then was forced to open my eyes,

Because it was too scary to think of nothing existing.

The world was so meaningless.

But how did the first domino even come to exist from that nothingness? 

How can I ever be happy again when I am not even sure if I exist?