Happiness is the smell of the trees and the iron before the light comes, with sore grip and aching legs. It's the strain of sinew burning fiercer than the sun.
Happiness is the quiet. It's the absence of bass music, the lack of weed smoke, and the assurance it's staying that way.
Happiness is the tea with friends, knowing you can afford it, and enjoying their company. It's also the feeling of the blankets as you read into the night.
Somehow, I've found myself being happy… and I'm not sure what happens next. It's nice though.