One is Happy When He Believes That He is Happy :: Happiness Essays

Not many people are happy, but all the libraries are filled with books on happiness, and this very fact should make us curious. The Ancients gave us dozens of recipes on how to conduct a happy life, each of them contradicting the other, or at least, with very dissimilar opinions. The Modernity has its own solutions up to the negation of the very possibility of having a happy life. And recently, mister Francis H. came up with his own idea of happiness. He argues that the problem of happiness can be reduced to wealth, knowledge and a personal belief of being "in control" of one's own life. Let's at first consider these factors. Wealth is important, according to mister Francis H., because it allows the satisfaction of one's basic needs. It seems to me that if it was true, the Ancients had no chance to be happy at all and we can not be happy as well, since in the time to come people will be even more wealthy than they are now (see later on the part of my essay "On Future") and able to better satisfy their needs. Well, I guess the notion of wealth is just relative. Same as basic needs which can cause even more trouble. What are basic needs? Color TV and refrigerator or your own jet plane? Or maybe just a barrel in a harbor as Diogenes showed us? Knowledge. In my opinion the problem with knowledge may be similar to the wealth issue. Knowledge in general (meant as scientific knowledge) has increased dramatically over the last centuries, but arguing that this has contributed to general happiness is at least risky, not to mention superfluous. This problem has two main aspects, firstly, its relativity (as in the case of wealth); we can fly to Venus and kill most of the microbes but there is still much more to be done. Secondly, its validity in the pure aspect, as giving us answers about the world and life in general. On the other hand, as far as personal knowledge, or education, or one's intelligence goes, I don't really see any direct correlation between what one knows and is capable of doing to his own happiness. History can supply us with arguments to both sides. If you don't like history, go to the nearest psychiatric hospital to see the lack of correlation. Here we come to the third aspect of happiness: The personal belief of being "in control".

A Dream Story – Creative Writing

Around me is long tall grass swaying slowly in the gentle breeze. Ahead of me is a thin path which meanders into the valley below me. Above me the clouds do not appear to be moving and each cloud seems to be looking at me expecting me to move. I tell myself I should, but the question is where? I want to move but my heart is telling me, change is ahead. I take a large deep breath of the clean, odourless country air. My legs begin to move. I have decided to follow the path which seems to have an abnormal atmosphere about it. As I begin to stroll forward I see naked trees with no leaves. The trees sway in the cold wind which makes them look as though they are shivering. The clouds above me are getting darker and darker; eventually they get as black as soot. All of a sudden creature like sky above me lets out a roar and its white deposits drift down onto me. It is snowing. As I continue to walk down the path questions begin to fly around me. How did I get here? Why am I here? Before I got here I was in my room listening to some music. All of a sudden an ear splitting noise besieged my ears. It was as if someone was drumming on my eardrums. Around me everything became a smoky mask. The world around me became a white blur. My eyes slowly shut into a midnight black world. When I awoke I had been transported into a setting that was very new to me. I began to think what I had just left behind I continued down the hill. I began to meander further and further down the path. At my feet the snow was starting to thaw out. Small flakes of snow on the ground were glistening in the bright sun as if they were saying â€Å"The joke's on you.† But why? It wasn't as if I had chosen to come here, wherever I was. Even when I was perched on the top of the hill, my path had already been chosen for me and that was the only direction I could go. What did this path symbolise? I would find out in due course. After another five minutes of constant downhill walking. I reached a small hindrance. A small transparent stream was blocking my path. It didn't really pose a large problem to me. All I had to do was to roll up my trousers and walk across it. For some weird reason, I was wearing sandals with no socks. When I was back in my room I had been wearing socks. All of the rest of the clothes I had been wearing were unchanged, so why the change of footwear? The water in the stream was surprisingly warm. In the water there was absolutely nothing. I dipped my head and I took a large gulp of the precious liquid, as I was desperately thirsty. My body was also cooled down. With fluid inside me I was ready to continue on my path. Around me trees were getting fewer and all that was around was tall grass. The only hill in sight was where I had come from, where I had launched my expedition into the unknown from. The path was beginning to get wider, smoother and easier to walk on. Perhaps I was getting somewhere significant. Maybe I was near the end of the path close to my friends and family. Was this all wishful thinking? Only time would tell. I started to walk faster. My walk grew into a jog. My jog grew into a run. My run grew into a sprint. All this because the path was getting wider and the surface was evening out. I knew something was ahead of me. I was beginning to tire. In the distance a barrier was slowly starting to form. What was I about to reach? I stood by the red and white wooden barrier which was blocking my way and preventing my onward journey. Why was it stopping me? Of course! I suddenly realised that it was a level crossing. On the floor in front of me were two iron parallel lines which were the train track. As it had just shut before my eyes a locomotive must be approaching. I looked left. Nothing. I looked right. Nothing. Again I looked left. Again nothing. Then I looked right and there it was chugging towards me. An ancient steam locomotive was coming towards me and out of the top of the engine steam billowed as if there were a hundred chimneys. The engine became louder and louder as it approached. Slowly it passed me. Gold letters shone out at me which read â€Å"Paul Sturrock†. Who was Paul Sturrock? All I could think of was that he must have been a great man to have had a fine locomotive named after him. Whilst I was daydreaming the train had almost passed by me. Should I get on the train? If I did where would I end up? The train might just go to some city I have never nor have any desire to go to. If I didn't get on the train I would just carry on the path to where ever I got to, but I would probably be safe. It was decision time. I ran past the red and white striped barrier. As this was an old fashioned train it wasn't going extremely fast. The rear carriage had a small platform where the conductor would stand. For some reason this train had no conductor. Come to think of it when I saw the train slowly pass me by there wasn't a driver by the looks of it. Perhaps though I was just imagining that. As I pulled my self up onto the black floor of the rear carriage I had a peek inside, there appeared to only be a handrail around the coach and a table with food coming from it. It was my favourite food roast beef with all the trimmings. I opened the door into the carriage. Nobody was inside. The smell of the warm Sunday lunch slowly drifted my way. I started to dribble at the thought of food. It must have been hours since I had eaten. I sat down on the comfy looking cushioned chair. It was beautiful. I could rest my feet which had recently clocked up many miles. I felt like I was a car who had just run out of petrol and who was just refuelling with delicious looking dinner in front of me. I picked up the shiny polished silver cutlery. I took a bite of the meat. It was exactly how I liked it. Not well done but not rare. It was the perfect medium to rare meat. I gobbled down the rest of the food very quickly. I now began to realise that somebody must have realised I was getting onto this train and must have cooked me the food. I advanced into the next carriage. Nothing. The next carriage. Nothing. The next carriage. Nothing. Finally in the last carriage I found a spotless kitchen. I begun to wander round it. In the oven there was no evidence that something had just been cooked. There were no finger marks on the stainless steel food preparation tables. On the floor something caught my eye. It was a note of places which were on this train's trip. I had heard of none of the places such as Jopwold, Southchester, Keele, Harow and the last place was simply named â€Å"The Wall†. Had we just stopped at one of these places before I got on? Were we heading back to the depot? I had no idea; all I could do is wait. Sitting down in an empty kitchen is hardly the most fun ever and it seemed to go on forever. I stood up looked in the cupboards there weren't even any spare ingredients so I couldn't even try and make some interesting food. Outside, there was nothing but the same tall, abysmal looking grass. I heard a high pitch screech as the train lurched me forwards. We were stopping. Were we at one of the stops on the piece of paper? As the train began to get slower and slower I stuck my head out of the carriage window. The train stopped. I looked left and right down the carriages to see if anyone was getting out. As I expected, nobody was. As I was leaning out, the door suddenly opened and I fell out crashing to the floor. I sat down where I had fallen waiting for the train to move on. Five minutes later it still hadn't moved. I presumed that I had reached â€Å"The Wall†. I looked around me. Where was this wall? I walked round the other side of the train. There it was. A glass wall stretching as far as the eye could see. On the other side of the glass wall was a black void with absolutely nothing in it. I knocked on the glass. It seemed very strong. I wanted to get through it. There was nothing round me to help me break through, just the same grass. Of course the table I had just eaten off on the train! I picked it up and carried it off the train. I pulled one of the legs off it and threw it at the glass wall with all my strength. It just rebounded off. I quickly pulled off the other three legs and hurled them at the wall but they just bounced off. I knew in my mind I had reached the end of the world.

Creative Writing Using a Helmet While in The Building...

It has all happened so stupidly, to my mind: one moment, Powel standing there, brushing from off his helmet the chalk-dust which has turned his face and stiff overcoat prematurely grey; suddenly, a shout from a welder a few stories up, a falling steel beam, and Powel stretched out on the concrete, his head split cleanly - segmented like a grapefruit. So stupid; there is no sense in feeling shocked or dismayed about it. You take your helmet off for five seconds and someone drops a steel beam on your head. We none of us knew Powel well. I was as close a friend to him as any man on the building site, and I didnt have any strong feelings for him. He was a difficult man; he had to provoke people. No doubt he didnt do it deliberately, but he†¦show more content†¦There wasnt much of the Dobostorte left in any case, not enough to go around, so Brian beat Powel up, made him promise to bring more tomorrow, sent him home with his ear and his tongue bleeding and a couple of his teeth missing. He never took much of an interest in his work. I asked him what professional work he had done in Russia and he say construction work, the same as here, so I suppose that he was merely lazy. His wife had been a professional cook but now she looked after the children. Two children, identical twins - both girls. He was always complaining about the twins. They used to run cat hair through his comb to make him think he was going bald, or turn on the washing machine while he was listening to the radio so that it would pick up and amplify the electrical signal. He would complain to his wife and she would tell him off for not being more assertive. Somehow their duplicity always frightened him, he would tell me; they were uncanny, there was some supernatural quality about them - something primitive or taboo. I used to think it was hilarious - he would work all day and be teased and taunted by a gang of men, then hed go home and the teasing and the nagging would start up again, this time from a gang of women. On the train, he used to tell me, he could relax. On the train, to and from work - an hour and a half in each direction from Frankston to the central business district, another fifteen minutes by tram ifShow MoreRelatedMarketing Thinking17817 Words   |  72 Pageschains. MARKETING THINKING (MT) CHALLENGE 1.3: CREATIVE THINKING ________________________________________________________________________ For this challenge, see if you can create three new associations. Part A. Identify two unrelated things to form a new association. What are they? 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