Boxes over Bedlam

I fear that my dream of laughing life away may be floundering.

Apparently it is not a responsible notion to have such a limited goal. I have been told, at great length, that it is not practical to expect so little of life. That writing in one's journal and backpacking through the years is not a suitable lifeline to hope for.
WHY?
In essence it is perhaps the hardest pinnacle to crave, it is the deepest struggle - to be happy for as long and as often as one can be. How is this not a noble enough cause? Why do we need to say that we want to 'get rich' and 'famous' to be taken seriously.

They ask me what I want to do and I respond, "I want to be insanely, ecstatically, fanatically happy".

They stare at me and blink thereby...

Picking up from the nonsensical ramblings of my last entry, the question lingers in different tangents. I find that regardless of conformity the struggle to be true to myself is ever-pervasive. It is still there, but it seems to be getting easier. Atleast I like to think it is. The last week has been a productive one, I seldom have those. Sometimes it takes forced company to get over ones' phobias. And noone can deny the phobias are many. I discover that when coerced in company im not half bad. Good even, when need be.
Heres to victory! This probably calls for a 'victus' battle cry at midnight in a gladiator outfit.
I don't have a gladiator outfit. Plus i'd have to shave my legs, so i'll scratch that.

Back to the mythical point that I need to prove exists and hence probably doesnt. Why is it that most of us (political correctness ever important) bracket the romance department. I have always nurtured the subjective belief that a perfect other exists. He is real and one fine day a not-so-random shopping mall, rainy street or bookstore will bring us together. Lightening will strike and the Beachboys will play 'Wouldnt it be nice' in the backdrop. If that be the case than what are the perfect similarities and perfect differences that make this 'other' perfect? Just a notch over or under the prescribed recipe and the fabled love is either over or under cooked. I watched the little Mermaid for the umpteenth time yesterday. 'The seaweed is indeed greener in somebody else's Lake' - I mean poor, demented Ariel simply needed to fall in love with a human. It just so happened that the first one stupid enough to fall off his boat in the middle of a hailstorm was a prince who was handsome. But what if she had been practical and decided to test most human men before 'choosing' the one. Whom would she have picked or would she not have picked at all and waited. I mean what happened after the rainbow glittered over Ariels wedding boat?
Is that how the notion 'love' came into play?
Did it simply become too hard to wait for perfection, think about it? Thereby the dependence on one all-powerful emotion that would help us overlook all the cracks and the flaws and settle. When all the signs blink red, one can say that love was the culprit. Love was the noose. Love was the excecutioner. Love made it 'worth it'. I have always longed to say those words, hopefully not with regret as most of us do.

Nevertheless, had we waited for Mr or Ms Right...perhaps love wouldn't have been that important. The pieces would fit, it would be perfect. The 'practicality' of 'perfection' would easily win over the silly stigma that is emotion. Two people who were 'made for each other' would be happy and the x factor wouldn't need to exist. Monogamy would be overruled by biology (which lets face it, it often is) and ecastacy by comfort.

Boxes over Bedlam...
It is the most loathesome notion ever.