I have forgotten how to write. It used to be so easy, you know. I just needed any one thought that was either locked up in my mind, in my Soul, but it was time to set it free and hence, I wrote. Or a developing thought, one that had not yet completely been realized and I would write and while writing discovered it’s meaning and why it had come to surface. I could lose myself in either path and there I would have it. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. The Truth. A story. My story. Amid all that I would be inspired to create metaphors, similes, poems. It was easy. Piece. Of. Cake. Right?
Happiness is not inspiring. (How bad did that just sound?) Does that make it seem as if I perceive it as insignificant? Does that make me “Emo” as people now say? Did I just reduce the one thing everyone hopes for? Prays for? Millions of people spend money on even the smallest ray of hope if it can lead them to being happy or happier. Self-motivational books are written on the path of happiness, and people buy them. The entire concept of Happiness is a real moneymaker. Who would have ever thought that something pure and intangible could be convoluted into something more concrete and polluted?
I almost want to feel sad again just so I can write.
I can write about Pain. I can write you a poem on how the ocean’s waves have engulfed me and I’m keeping afloat by merely paddling my own hands. I can turn a sunny day into something completely morbid. That’s easy. It’s like Joni Mitchel’s song, “Both Sides Now.” You know how as a kid you would look up at the clouds and ask your friend or if you were like me, you would ask yourself, “What do you see?” You imagined images; a unicorn, an elephant, profile of a face, and there were those very rare moments I saw God within those clouds. Yet, as I grew into my teenage years and became an adult, clouds changed as they “block the sun. They rain and snow on everyone. So many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way.” I have only seen life through those lenses. I only know how to write seeing through those lenses; the eyes of Pain, Betrayal, Disappointment. But how can I write when I no longer feel that? (Though I’ll never forget my three most loyal companions) What story can I conjecture when their passion ceased? If I can’t write, then I will lose myself all over again. I have been found and I vehemently refuse to get lost…again.