Like specks of space dust, that’s what we all are. That’s pretty much how I can sum up my two-hour conversation with my longtime friend Gil. I’d come up to him for some forgettable legal advice and we ended up at the school cafeteria, sipping a bland concoction pretending to be mango shakes.

A conversation with Gil is never boring. Witty, irreverent, and provocative, he looks and sounds like Stephen Hawking. I’d put him up there as the most authentic intellectual I’d ever met, except that he’s so hilarious.

His convictions, however, aren’t laughable. He thinks, as I do, that although we all try to conform to the same standards of justice, uprightness, morality, and success, these are all “constructs,” ingrained into our consciousness by a society that is either hip or hypocritical, depending on which side of the proverbial fence you’re sitting.

A friend of ours, a lawyer like Gil, one day drove a kitchen knife into his heart, shredding our basic notions of faith and fortitude. Shocked and incredulous, we all naturally mourned.

Yet what does it mean when someone takes his own life? My mother once quipped that she took her hat off to those who committed suicide, if for nothing else than the sheer courage with which they did it. What a revolting concept this may be. But how can we presume to understand what truly goes on in the deep crevices of someone else’s mind? If ending a life is liberative for some, then who are we to contest it?

That appears to be what Paulo Coelho was driving at in his book Veronika Decides to Die. Just because some people appear to be nuts doesn’t always mean that they truly are. “I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life. Go ahead with your own life, and leave me alone.” They’d likely belt that out and give Billy Joel a run for his money—and we still wouldn’t be able to fault them for their free spirit. Life is far more complex than such presumptuousness.

I’m drawn into these things because I realize more than ever that happiness is personal. It can’t be prescribed by “accepted” entities like society, history, or even family. Often among urbanites, the simultaneous demands of earning a living, raising a family, or even keeping an “upright” front can overwhelm one’s composure. Happiness can’t possibly come from such pressures.

Despite our valiant claims, “we aren’t in control of our lives,” muses Gil. That’s probably a bit off the mark, but I guess it means that we can “control” only that which is close to our hearts. Ayn Rand fought to defend her philosophy that after all is said and done, the Individual takes precedence over everything. I disbelieved her then with my left-of-center worldview.

But now, in hindsight, I suppose she’s right. Working with others, for example, in anything from establishing an enterprise to organizing farm workers may be satisfying to a point. But at the end of the day, how satisfied is the Self? Stripped of our titles and laurels, are we happy?

The Buddhist Kingdom of Bhutan is the only country on earth that officially records its Gross Domestic Happiness, as opposed to the time-worn Western barometer called Gross Domestic Product. Now, how’s that for maverick thinking? When Bhutan scholars first broached the idea in the late 1980s, the rest of the world thought they were mad. But barely two years ago, a summit was held smack at the center of that Himalayan country, challenging technocrats and economists from 20 countries to ponder the implications of changing the indicators of happiness.

That alone probably means there’s hope.

As for me, I’d rather keep the discourse simple. I believe that our single most important objective in life is to collect our happiest memories, like photographs I’d once taken of a secluded beach. The family’s a sucker for long swims and noontime barbeques, which are

what we live for, really: moments with families. What else is there in life? Everything else—talent, achievement, even professional affirmation—is icing in the cake.

Without moments like these, we’d all be cogs in the grinding routine of life.