Only Idiots Are Happy

Only idiots are happy.
I was thinking this over tea and toast this morning.
Idiots don’t think about death, like animals they have no concept of it so live as if they were immortal. And if you are immortal, you don’t need to anxiously seek a purpose for your short time on the planet, to try and make sense of it, you will forever be so you just eat, sleep, pass time, reproduce, and repeat ad infinitum.
But then as I brushed my teeth I thought the following: can you actually be happy if you don’t know it, if you haven’t asked yourself the question? Because if you are unhappy and realise it, at least you can try and do something to remedy the fact. Idiots could be unhappy and not do anything about it because they simply don’t know any different.
Sitting on the toilet I then contemplated this conundrum while I took a dump. The question of whether self-reflection is an aid or a block to happiness is a serpentine one. Some could argue that analysis leads to paralysis and even further anxiety. After straining long and hard, I finally came up with the following thesis: some idiots are happy, some aren’t; some non-idiots are happy, some aren’t.
It was a big dump. I had not quite refuted the initial premise but at least come up with the contention that questioning oneself is a valid exercise. And they were solid stools so I’m getting enough fibre.
I was ready for the day.