I think my problem is I write too much when I’m sad, when I’m crippled by my own self destruction.

I forget that it will pass.

That this moment is not the end of the world, my tears will crystallize and tomorrow will be better.

I write the most when I refuse to cut off a chunk of my own advice, the advice that I try so desperately to get others to listen to.

And I can’t even try it out for myself.

So then I write.

And I write as though my pain is made of me-

that the world is this rotating orb of harvested sadness, built up from the romanticized ache of authors around the globe

and I forget

that happiness is abundant, there are so many good days, light days, days when the world doesn’t seem like it has a bad thing in it

Why don’t I write more on those days?

why don’t I etch into paper how I feel when I’m excruciatingly happy

when my feet can barely even feel the ground and my body is so numb to pain

Times that go unspoken, times that seem so cliche, but in that moment nothing is cliche

everything is as it is supposed to be

Times when I’m driving in the car with people I love and music is making a home in my ears

and I’m watching as the road is passing by, as if we’re flying off of it, creating our own

and the sun is racing the trees

drowning in their green, tugging on their branches, trying to stay afloat in the sky

and my body feels whole

my mind at peace with my toes tracing the dashboard

at peace with my clenched hands rocking on air guitar

and everything is okay