Seems easier when the sun is out.
Easier to smile, to appreciate the small bits about you you don't like.
To open your dusty journal and begin writing about love again.
Seems that way.
I've had a hard time sitting with a pen and paper in front of me, the paper blank and the pen filled to the brim with ink.
The paper whispers that it misses me, that I've been gone too long.
The pen? Feels so foreign in my hands it's like I've forgotten.

But maybe that shouldn't leave such a vile taste in my mouth? Is my mind fooling me? You see, the reason I started with those two in the first place was because of him, he led me to them.
They became my companions, my bodyguards, my shelter.
They became my needle, supplying the high I needed when I felt abandoned.

Now? Now I can't think of a better time in my life to be happy. Even saying the number 17 sounds wicked, and if you look hard enough there's a smile hiding behind it. As much as I want to stay here with them, and write until wit's end, I don't need to anymore.

I've misplaced my unhappiness, and I don't think I want to go searching for it yet.