Where did the happiness go, John? Where did all the good times go — where did that feeling of bliss, of completeness disappear? Why, how did you let go the people you loved, where are they now, and why is it too late? Why is everything gray and dim, while there used to be colours everywhere? Why isn't anyone as wonderful as the one you failed to recognize back then, the one that now has drifted away? 

Where did the happiness go, John? You cannot love any more, because you won't deem anybody worthy of love. Nobody is wonderful enough, because nobody ever was. You judge everyone getting to close against an idea you built, a fantasy you cherish but has no ground in reality and never had any; nobody can be good enough, because you want them to match the ghost of your past love, and this very ghost is nothing but a figment of your imagination. They never existed, John. There is no ghost, only unrealistic criteria you derived from an idealized and insane version of what you thought you had. It's all a scam, John, and you set it up yourself.

And you know the worst part? You will not even tell people why they're not enough, why they're always short of something; you won't even tell them how they're being judged, that they're being judged. You're playing a game with rules which make no sense, with no hope of winning, and you won't tell anybody that they've been dealt a hand too — and have lost already.

Of course, you still love her — but are you certain even she would meet your standards, wouldn't fail your test — would be perfect enough? That she would live up to this image of her you drew from memory when memory faded?

You never were blissful, John, and all those moments you long for and regret are a lie, a fake memory, a construct. You're lying to yourself, you delusional idiot. Where did the happiness go, John? There was never any.