Under happiness life becomes dreamable; there is resistance of course, but this yields under pressure and in the most delightful way, the object is correlative to the subject but still endows it with torrents of unexpected new content of the same kind, so that this subject-self can remain in harmony with its world and keep going forward with no need to discover that this very world is a mere dream. The happiest dreams invite us to keep on dreaming. Of course this never lasts long, the shock is to find that there is a world out there that we desperately care about, and so the mind streams out through every sense and the centre of gravity takes firm root in the object. The crux was when we found ourselves caring so much about the actions or attitudes of the other after we'd been convinced that the only target of such care was ourselves. To retain the equilibrium of such a self we must care about it, but to do so we need to figure in some way as an object of care. It needs to have a character we can view as worthy, but a character is something staged and anything staged is made up out of borrowed elements, elements we only presume are our own, and anachronistically so, long after they have shown up as more proper to someone else. The world outside can strike us through the heart because it our own alienated self-love that makes it overwhelmingly real.