Is the joy of being alive, not enough reason to be delighted?

 Sometimes I wish that all my thoughts could be logged automatically somehow. It would make a great book and take much less effort. Then I suppose all my secrets and lies would be shown to the world, and how cowardly I am. It's a thought that only comes when I can't write down the poem or thought I am weaving in my mind.

I am a hypocrite. Even though I don't like lies, I deceive like a sly fox to avoid situations I despise. I guess I have been quite skilled at avoiding things, like when guests come. I lower my gaze, wear a gentle smile, and speak only select words. Rarely do I see people eye to eye—they live in my periphery. Cowardly enough, I don't even make prolonged eye contact with my parents.

I am not the domestic type; I am the type to be left alone on a mountaintop, in a wooden shack I call home, with no one close by. I fear my own future. I wonder if I'll be able to manage family matters. I hate surprises and humans, though for humans, I think the hate comes from the way they make me wary of their presence.

But amidst all this doubt and weariness, there lies a world untouched by my fears—a world of simple joys.

Is the joy of being alive, not enough reason to be delighted?

The gentle, calm warmth of the winter evening sun,
The songs of insects in summer,
The frail light of fireflies, full of hope.
The seashores at sunset,
Or the open fields of flowers.

The whooshing sound of a breeze passing by,
The way icy winds tease the curtains while entering,
The allure of the sun and the moon,
A starry night whispering secrets unknown.

The warm touch of hands,
The comfort of a cozy fire and quilt,
The smile of a loved one,
The laughter of a friend,
Or a fleeting embrace that stays in memory’s grasp.

The taste of honey or candy,
The heart beating inside,
The long breath and a sigh of relief,
These sensual treasures that life grants freely.

These sensual pleasures—
Are they not enough reason to be delighted with life?