She’s tried to write so many times before but can’t. Sits down on the chair, fingers static over the keyboard. Where they were once electric with the flow of motion and words, they rest like the awkward break in a conversation.
She thinks it’s so hard to write when you’re happy, loved the despair and feeling numb, used them like gas for a one way vehicle with only a crash for a destination. She loved her sadness too much that now that she’s happy words have betrayed her.
What can she tell a world that relishes in the darkness of emotions, in the pain, the heartbreak, the despair, the sadness, the loneliness and the isolation when she herself thrived in the pessimism.
How can you water a flower that nurtured itself in misery?