They say people live to be happy. If you actually think about

In the words of RM, the modern sage whose voice bridges generations, we find a truth as humble as it is profound: “They say people live to be happy. If you actually think about what happiness is, it’s nothing much. When you get to eat ramen after feeling really, really hungry, that’s happiness.” These words, though born in an age of neon lights and restless dreams, carry the same wisdom that guided the ancients beneath their stars. For the nature of happiness is not in grand victories or golden crowns, but in the quiet grace of small satisfactions—the moment when need meets fulfillment, when the heart remembers that simplicity is sacred.

In a world that runs endlessly toward more—more wealth, more status, more glory—RM’s reflection stands like a temple built in stillness. He speaks not of the happiness that dazzles the crowd, but of the one that whispers softly when no one is watching. The taste of ramen after hunger is not merely a meal—it is a revelation. It is the soul remembering gratitude. It is the reminder that joy, in its purest form, does not come from what is abundant, but from what is enough.

Think of the wandering monk Bodhidharma, who crossed the seas in search of truth. For nine long years he meditated before a wall, his body frail, his heart steadfast. When at last enlightenment dawned upon him, it was not a vision of thrones or heavens—it was the simple understanding that contentment is liberation. So too does RM teach us, in his quiet poetry, that to know happiness we must first know hunger—not only of the body, but of the spirit. Without emptiness, fullness has no meaning; without longing, satisfaction has no taste.

There was once a farmer who, after years of drought, saw rain fall upon his parched fields. As the drops touched the earth, he wept—not for the harvest to come, but for the present miracle of water upon soil. His neighbors, who sought riches beyond their reach, could not understand his joy. Yet he, like the poet who finds bliss in a bowl of ramen, had learned the oldest secret: that happiness is not a treasure to be found, but a moment to be noticed.

True happiness, then, is not the absence of suffering—it is the recognition of beauty within it. When one has tasted despair, even a glimmer of hope is a feast. When one has been lonely, the warmth of another’s voice becomes sunlight. Life’s richest moments are not carved in marble; they are fleeting, tender, ordinary—and therein lies their divinity. RM’s ramen is every soul’s reminder to kneel before simplicity, to see eternity in the brief sweetness of relief.

The ancients would say that man’s heart is like a vessel: if it is overfilled, it cannot receive; if it is emptied by gratitude, it becomes infinite. To live chasing only the grand, the eternal, is to miss the divine in the everyday. But to see happiness in the warmth of food, the laughter of a friend, or the touch of sunlight through a window—that is to live fully, presently, wisely.

So, let this be your teaching, children of tomorrow: do not seek to build your joy from gold and glory, for they fade like mist. Instead, seek to know your hunger—to walk through the desert so that the taste of water may humble you. When you eat, eat with reverence; when you love, love with awareness; when you rest, rest with gratitude. These are the acts that make a soul luminous.

And when you find yourself weary, chasing distant dreams, remember RM’s words: “When you get to eat ramen after feeling really, really hungry, that’s happiness.” Let them bring you back to earth—to the warmth of a bowl in your hands, to the quiet joy of being alive. For in the smallest pleasures, we touch eternity; and in gratitude for the simplest things, we find the truest form of happiness.