When did someone decide to name happiness? 
When did someone decide to name sadness?

My happy place is grey,
cold, dull, snowing.
The air stings my lungs with every heavy release of working breath.
I have a light jacket on — jeans, adidas sneakers and a beanie.
My glasses are covering my eyes from the chilled wind.
There are trees everywhere.
I'm in a forest but there — a bench and a bus sign.
It's still — quiet, except for the wilting whisper of snow drifts and snow flurries.
I have a coffee that never runs out.
I have a book that never ends.
And for some reason I'm sitting at a bus stop.

The bus arrives, but there isn't a driver or other passengers — no one.
The bus’s engine is roaring.
The glass on the windows are frosted over.

I'm shivering, but I'm not really cold.
The bus starts moving.
I'm so fucked up, I don't care.
I just want whatever life this is to stay for a while. 
Hours and hours pass while I close my eyes and sit in silence.

The bus stops, but I'm at the same place.
Did we go in a circle?
Whatever. I want to care but I just don’t 
I get off and sit down at the bench with my coffee and book.
I read for a bit, but I could never make out what the book is about.
There are no signs of evening approaching.
So, I sleep in cover under the bench. 
Another bus shows up.
This time it’s filled with people — young people,
loud as fuck with no care.
No driver.
I try to sit there silently.
Listening (but desperately trying not to) to the cluster fuck of children screaming and chatting.
I couldn't take it.
I screamed!
The children stop and stare at me and started laughing at me — it didn't stop.
I fell down crying.
I tried to stop the bus to get away from the noise. The door wouldn't open.
I went to the wheel and I was flung to the back window of the bus.
I was trapped — helpless, alone, but surrounded by people.
The bus finally stopped — no one left.
No one moved.
They kept yelling and talking.
I got off, and of course I'm back at the bus stop.
I sit down with my coffee and the really, really fucked up plot of a book.
I sleep there under the bench.
Feel the frozen grass crunch as I lay my body on top on each blade. 
I couldn't handle the bus ride again. 
I wake up to the bus, and the door flings open, but the driver is there — a fat man with a ski mask on. 
He doesn't talk — just stares at me. 
I had to get on. 
I asked him, "What is this place?" "Where is everyone?"
He didn’t reply. So I just set down in the bus again.

I felt funny, like I knew this place. 
The bus stopped, but someone got on — another person "WHO ARE YOU?". 
The person looked at me and said, "I am you but happy. I’m everything you wanted for yourself I’m your happiness." 
He (Happiness) pointed to the driver.
He is your anger, just driving along the path.
Not knowing where to go so he just… goes.
Always ends in a circle. I don’t think he pays attention. 
Then, children appeared and screamed, "We're your depression! The children stand around me and my happiness. One of the children pushes their way to me. A little girl. She stared at my face she spat what looked like black ink in my face it tasted of blood. We are one. We are the same. We are you. We are whats left in your head. And one day you’ll have had enough and fucking end it.
You don't get to leave unless you end it"

The children all standing. Surrounding. Waiting. 

My happiness sitting next to me trying to hold my hand.
Depressions hellchild kicked his shin every attempt he made. Happiness mutters “fuck” quietly each time. He seems to be getting tired and annoyed. I hope he doesn’t leave me.
Anger just drove mindlessly, ignoring everyone. 
I noticed the pretty crimson pistol he has with the barrel resting inside the cup holder.
The bus stopped. 
The depressions hellchild left 
Just disappeared. 
Happiness gave me a kiss on my cheek and anger told me to leave.
I got off. Happiness waved to me. 
He told me. Don't worry I'm only at the next stop. 

I sit down at my bench drinking my coffee and reading my book, teary eyed
Thinking in silence.
Listening to the somber winds of winter.

Knowing that in a few hours that, that bus will return. And I will go on.

-Bryce Willey