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