Peddlers

Close your eyes. What does the world look like? Is your street clean and leafy? Are your neighbours happy, friendly people? Do all your sexual partners have hard abs and straight white teeth? Do you?

It's not your fault. Before you were aware of it your benchmark had been set. "Everything that falls short of this image," says your subconscious daily, "is unacceptable. I must look like this, own these things, I must laugh and love and never argue. I must be accepted by people. Then I'll be happy" 

And it's reinforced every day. Topped up on the way to work. Recalled when you go out with your friends. Everywhere you go, some beaming model, some celebrity, some impossible vision is saying, "Hey. Don't forget your promise."

So you work. You accrue. You put in the hours; pay your dues. You turn labour into the tangible status of your happiness. Now you have a well appointed flat, finished to a high spec. You have a couple of tailored suits that fit just right. You have a watch you're still making payments on. You're happy. You must be. You have all this stuff.

But when you look in the mirror you don't see those pearlescent teeth or taut calves. You don't see that sculpted, tanned torso. Your eyes are red, circled with thin, iridescent skin from working late and rising early. Your forehead is branded deep with lines and your cheeks hang too loose over your teeth. You see ribs. You see fat. You see the picture of youth you were so unhappy with, that fell so short of the expectations you placed on it that you stretched it too thin between work and life, just so you could get your slice of that happiness. And now it sags in that mirror. 

You broke your promise. You'll never be happy.