Happiness is the root of all things. It is like a miracle, something so radiant but surprisingly damned. Joy soothes like warm summer rain, it’s smile is not seductive, but contagious. It whispers, “Everything is fine,” while the world crumbles underneath. A mirage of meaning, painted in laughter and golden light.

It blinds with pleasure. Not carnal, not gluttonous, but pure, uncut elation. The kind that makes people forget the blood on their hands, the rot in their hearts. It is the drug that dulls conscience, a sweet lullaby that drowns out the cries of the guilty.

It doesn’t corrupt, It absolves. The bliss of ignorance, the ecstasy of denial, It is the sin that feels like salvation. And in the end, when all hope is lost, it is Joy who arrives with open arms and a blinding smile, to carry it gently into Hell.