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My happiness is gone, yet I feel so much of it.
Not the happiness that is reborn with every laugh, or smile you make.
But a hidden relic of happiness, layered with dust and soaked in webs.
The remnant is one which has not been used since the time.

With the rediscovery of this remnant, a friend came with it.
A layer of sadness, and grief, sedimented together, with my remnant.
The sediments performed a creation—a new feeling.
This feeling is one that I have experiences far less than many others.

This feeling gives off hope and hopelessness.
Joy and distress.
Happiness and grief.
Anger and lust.

This feeling gives away the release of tears.
It makes me scream.
It makes me weep.
It makes me depressed.
It makes me suicidal.

And yet, I feel joy coming from this feeling.
I feel no pain.
I feel no regret.
I feel no demise.

I feel a tug, which pulls me from my era.
I wish to go back to the past.
To relive the moments.
To relive the happiness.
To relive the carelessness of life.

But that is the problem.
Life must go on, time must go on,
and the process of aging must travel with it.

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