The Beatles had it right all along.

Unhappiness is best cured by the realisation that true, long-lasting happiness is as mythical as Perseus, as elusive as Jim Morrison's sanity. Happiness is indeed, in its nudge-wink metaphorical sense, little more than a warm gun. While some might find this theory depressing, I, myself, take great solace in it. The pursuit of anything remotely meaningful makes me feel like a fly in a crowded market, begging for attention from anyone who'd be kind enough to swat. This leaves me shaky and diffident, wishing the Charvakas had kidnapped Buddha, mesmirised Richard Gere, and so by default, all of humanity. With no restrictions on desire, there'd be no guilt. There'd be no quest for nirvana either; just a quest for love-slaves eager to pamper you with grapes as sweet as manna from heaven.