They look very happy

You always come across some drunk people on the side of the road at night, holding each other up and laughing loudly, optimistic as if they could never be knocked down. I wonder, among these staggering souls, which ones are truly happy.

Walking along the roadside at night, you always encounter some intoxicated people.
Their steps are unsteady, yet they support each other, as if forming a temporary alliance; their voices are loud, they laugh without restraint, and the topics they discuss burst intermittently in the air. That laughter is too full, so full that it creates an illusion—as if the world has never left any scars on them.

They appear optimistic to the point of stubbornness, as if no matter how life pushes and shoves, it can only make them stagger, never truly fall.

Yet I can’t help but wonder, among these unsteady souls, how many are genuinely happy.

Alcohol makes people feel lighter.
It’s not that the problems become lighter, but that the feelings become lighter. Reality still exists, but it’s temporarily placed somewhere out of reach. So people can laugh carefreely, let loose without worry, and willingly hand over their dignity and self-control to the night. In that moment, they aren’t winning against life; they’re just temporarily not confronting it.

Some are truly happy. Friends are by their side, the night breeze is just right, the city lights are gentle, and tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. Happiness is complete in this moment, needing no explanation, no continuation.

Some, however, are not happy—they simply don’t want to be sober.
Being sober means calculating, means comparing, means returning to the person they are during the day—the one who needs to take responsibility, be evaluated, and constantly prove they’re still “doing okay.” Alcohol presses the pause button for them, rendering all judgment ineffective, making failures, disappointments, and regrets temporarily weightless.

And then there are those who laugh the hardest.
Their laughter is like a declaration—I’m fine, I’m good, I can keep going. The louder they are, the more it seems like they’re trying to convince themselves. Because once they fall silent, something will catch up, standing right behind them.

So I prefer to believe that it’s not just their bodies that are unsteady.
It’s that life, at some moment, doesn’t want to stand upright.
It’s souls briefly leaning against each other, borrowing a bit of strength, a bit of liveliness, pretending they’re not alone.

Alcohol brings everyone to the same level, making them all seem alike. But once daylight comes, the weight each must bear is still different. Some will keep walking, some will stay where they are, and some won’t even want to look back at who they were the night before.

True happiness is actually quiet.
It doesn’t need loud laughter to maintain its presence, nor does it rush to prove itself to passersby.
And that kind of repeatedly amplified happiness is often just to offset something.

Under the streetlights, the figures gradually disperse, and the laughter fades around the corner.
The night returns to its original order.
Only those who have walked past know whether that night, they were truly happy, or just temporarily not in pain.