21/08/2025
"Why is he happy?
He cannot talk,
He doesnât know how to dress himself,
Or draw, or use a spoon.
He has no friends.
Not a single one.
Yet â he is happy.
With no expectations.
He doesnât request to go to the zoo,
Or beg for birthday parties.
He asks for nothing, wants for nothing.
He giggles at lights,
Dances in the rain,
Flaps to the rhythm of birdsong.
He is present
In a way I struggle to be â
Outside the metrics weâre taught to measure by.
No goals. No trophies. No milestones to chase.
Just now.
Not reaching for meaning â
Living it.
Moment by unfiltered moment.
And still I ache.
Not because he is sad,
But because⌠he isnât.
I see the doors he cannot open,
While he remains blissfully unaware that they exist.
He doesnât even know what heâs âmissing.â
I wonder:
If he could ride a bike, would he know the thrill of coasting downhill?
If he could read, would stories carry him to faraway places?
Would more ability bring more joy?
Or is that my projection â
The paradox of parenting:
To assume that more must mean better?
To grieve on behalf of someone elseâs content.
So maybe itâs not his potential I mourn,
But the quiet dismantling of everything I believed happiness required:
Progress, productivity, doing.
Because today,
He smiles.
No football. No bike. No words.
No hunger for achievement.
No map to follow.
Just the warmth of sun on his face,
And the quiet peace of being enough.
Joy â unmeasured â
Without knowing
What he âshouldâ be.
And in that,
Perhaps
He is freer
Than we ever will be."
â¤ď¸
-zak blackney.