One of my most sublime conversations was with the electronic musician Moby who had just come out with his album “Hotel” in 2005. He was intrigued by the nature of hotels, where traveling musicians spend significant portions of their lives but have all traces of their tenancy removed for the next guests. He told me that being a hotel guest is like being a human on earth, a temporary relationship and, hopefully, one in which we don’t trash the hotel or the habitat.

But I could also feel Moby’s ennui. He had everything he could ever want, but his life felt empty, like his hotel room. He started to see that the externals of life didn’t create long-term nourishment for the internals. He was recently sober and realized he needed to become even more of an activist. True to his new philosophy, Moby’s life improved once he realized that success would not bring happiness.

Unfortunately, Tennessee Williams, who wrote The Catastrophe of Success from the blank canvas of a hotel room, never quite understood how to marry success and happiness. And we all know Whitney Houston never made it out of her Beverly Hilton hotel room or John Belushi at The Chateau Marmont. Not long ago, 20 years after Kurt Cobain’s suicide, the Seattle Police released his suicide note that was written on a bedside notepad from The Phoenix.

I don’t mean to be morose with today’s post. I just wanted to highlight that neither sex, success, drugs, dollars, fans, or fame will offer you a magic wand to make you happy. In the words of Beyonce, “Happiness comes from you. No one else can make you happy. You make you happy.”