The melancholy pursuit of happiness

The newest chapter is the beginning.
That radically changing "imaginary".
That Language of Structure -
the structure of language?
Therefore, I'm fairly certain that I've
been unaware.
Positive in fact!
That unless you are the source
of-a-language's origin,
such as poetic is - poetry.
The poet must emphasize;
any context which words are
being felt within the structure.
If the poet fails to alter or conceptualize
thoughts into words that create significant
meaning.
And to be sure - meaning is true.
That show of exhibition aren't turly inhibitions.
The poet only becomes a poet:
once the words create a meaning of its own.
Its own nature.
Its own doing,
that no longer has attachment from the
poets.
It is as though cutting of the umbilical cord
from a mother after having given birth.
The new born is cut, not literally.
But ritually.
And the snip you hear as if a musical chord.
A music note in the air that drifted off
somewhere before conscious.
Before-conscious alerted you.
After the mother's task to squeeze you out
into-the-world.
You became somebody.
That everything around you -
was creating it for you.
You are the most self-conscious gentle soul
I've ever met here.
In my melancholy pursuit of eternal
happiness.
What is the subject matter,
of conscious thought. . .
in all of our make-believe.
That moments pass.
Compulsive.
Lacking obessions of conscious effort.
The minute one shoe drops.
What I ask is this.
Is happiness not only a choice,
but a pursuit of conscious belief.
And if so.
So if the world retained memory of choice,
would the choices be internal or external.
We will never know the impossible.
It is to exist.
Therefore, impossible.
Happiness is quite possible.
But truly not - happiness.