On happiness

Last week a student asked me what happiness was, and I really couldn't think of something accurate yet coherent to say. It got me thinking.

Guess I'll always agree with Schopenhauer on this: desire is the root of all suffering. (Yes, even though the bastard was a misogynist.) The conflicting part of it, though, is that desire is inherent to human nature. 

The most common desire is happiness, which is subject to relativity due to everyone's different conception of it. For instance, travelling would make me happy and that's why I'm on my way to do it; helping people out makes me happy and that's what I do for a living; being an independent woman makes me happy and that's what I intend to do day by day. I'm surrounded by amazing people: a surprisingly supportive and loving family, and the most loyal and beautiful friends. I love my life. I love my body and adore my personality. And still, some days, I don't feel happy nor satisfied at all.

Yes, there's a tiny missing piece of me that has been hunting me down. The coward and rejected one who's afraid to take a chance even when there's a guy that seems worth the trouble. Perhaps it's not even rejection what makes me scared, but actually having something real with an amazing someone. Because, what would come next? Wouldn't I be having it all then?

I've heard -and felt- that happiness is made of moments. And it makes total sense, otherwise we wouldn't appreciate it. Hence, happiness isn't the goal after all, is it? Schopenhauer might had been right all along, maybe we are born to suffer. That way happiness would be the unexpected -but treasured- oasis in the desert of life.

Right? 

Or maybe I should try to turn my brain off more often.