An absurd idea: why I wrote my most recent book (still under revision) "Islands of Happiness"

This story begins a year before and ends almost one year later. A span of time in the human being life relatively short but long, nonetheless. As life on earth: long but relatively short yet.
It all started with a photo, which looked as many other photos, only a photo which aimed to fix a moment of happiness. And it fixed it forever, that is to say, for as long as it will exist.
But happiness is not  only a moment of our lives, happiness is not even eternal, as eternal are not photos and people.
But why then we look for happiness? What strange idea is this odd idea of ours?
An absurd idea, but substantially possible though, in spite of everything.
Because of that picture taken at the beginning of this book the destiny (but destiny does not exist — it's just a way of talking about life directions) wanted to be discussed for many pages to narrate the life of a family that in Vilnius, Lithuania, fought for their happiness in a time frame that corresponds to almost twelve months of existence.
It is a true story, as true are all the narratives that make us believe in something. To believe in something we need stories because stories make people and things close. Without stories, no person or thing become close and therefore true. This is the kind of stories that make us believe (approach) to values, to heroes, to States ... they make us exist and elude nothingness.
But why are we human beings desperately seeking happiness? Why are we building stories to stay close and to believe in a world we want — a world of our own and happy? Why do we obstinately seek an island where we can live together in that happiness?
To answer these questions, "destiny" pushed this story to be written, for many reasons, but above all for one: avoiding desperation.
Only happy stories take us out of that Nothing that haunts us and crucifies us, naked, in front of a single truth that we would never have wanted to hear:

There is nothing after us 

Not even an anything 

that would be something yet.

(by Giorgio Caproni, Italian poet)