As I grow older, I want to find resolutions for the broken feelings I've archived. Some of them whisper to me as daylight slips past. Others caress my hand as it hovers over words.

Oh, it's so easy to write about the devastation. To close my eyes and relive the moments that bring me the most grief. Yet more and more, I want to stop looking back and trudge forward instead.

There is so much life left to live. So much happiness I haven't penned—not because it wasn't worthy of composition, but because sadness is so much more familiar.

Let this serve as a reminder that beautiful works have stemmed from joy. That the hardest part of optimism is reluctance. I get to choose the feelings that I feel. I know that now.