Fragile Happiness

Of course my fragile happiness, splintering so quickly
for no apparent reason, is the result of rampant allergy
with attendant clumsiness and chemical depression –
tonight the green beans burned, the curtain rod fell, I
feel tired and angry about everything, falling about 

Can’t think logically nor chronologically - my beloved
justifiably angry with me - all my own fault - at least I
can be miserable in blessed isolation tomorrow in the
office, laughter my only defence and humour the best
shield to survive my brain short-circuiting; with bitter

Coffee and Lobsang Rampa’s terrible Tibetan theory
that illusionary life is a form of hell and the soul must
return to this sphere until lessons have been learned
thoroughly – maybe his book “Cave of the Ancients”
is not meant for me as I believe life is wonderful fun

We can choose and change roles as we please while
Lobsang’s Tibetan Buddhism sentences every follower
to a cold life deprived of all physical comfort - this is not
a happy book to read while I’m trying not to fall into the
black hole in my brain, but since I don’t have anything

Else to read, the only way forward is to follow Lobsang
through his Lamasery hell where he lives and sleeps
in his robe day and night, listening to monks chanting,
the scenes embellished by the added glamour of Terry
Pratchett’s Listening Monks on the Ramtops