Schisms.

Happiness is so very fickle.
As the four horsemen rode together, one fell behind.
Like a puzzle.
The pieces seem to fit for only a short time.
And the smallest trigger.
The simplest gesture.
The remembrance of the most mundane details.
And the pieces all fall apart.
Cracks and fissures begin to form in your psyche.
And all of sudden you wonder how you ever felt that way.
That happiness.
That...happiness.
You begin to wonder which feels more right.
A slightly tainted happiness, with little lies and secrets hidden all over.
Or embracing your depression, your anger, your rage and just feeling everything for what it is.
I am the schismatic of everything holy.
Is love a frantic eternity?
Or is it no eternity at all?