Happiness is the death of creativity. Or maybe just in youth. I sometimes fear I put myself in the way of pain, torment and unrest because I think I am suppose to. Because I need to, because I believe that is where I belong.
I have no shortage of ways to make myself unhappy. My mind and emotions can turn a few days of calm into a crisis. I can see the ugliness in everything. I can discover doubt and mistrust where there is no logical reason to be. And I can hide it so well.
I wonder what I would have become if I did not write. If I had never found a way to release what I keep buried away. I’m sometimes afraid to post, afraid those I want to cling to will read and run. Other times, I want to shove it in someone’s nose, and hope I’ll be accepted, loved, cherished, and nurtured despite the darkness.
But days like today my limbs grow as heavy as my heart as I believe I’m still the same idiot who scribbled in those notebooks all alone, so long ago.
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