7/1/2020
I want to believe ever so badly that I am a writer. Still, I seldom actually sit my ass to as Hemingway so eloquently said "bleed on paper." I suppose it has to do with happiness. Over the course of the last five years, and of course maybe longer, I have been on this quest to find or create my own happiness. Here's the thing about writing, it doesn't go with happiness. Most real, in depth, raw, cuts through your soul type of writing requires such an intense level of grief. You can't do it any other way. You are "to bleed" because it cuts and it hurts, and it is the closest thing to honesty and truth I have ever discovered. You can't stare at your own bullshit on paper. I mean I suppose you could, but good writers, they are considered good because their words actually resonate. They resonate because they are real. So anyway, I'm sort of getting tired of trying to be happy. Maybe some of us are not meant for that. maybe some of us have a role to play, a role of shining light on things that are nothing to be happy about. Lord knows I have done my part in trying to heal the dark aspects of my identities. Yet, every so often, I just fail miserably. I am starting to also recognize that I am most in my own element as a person of darkness. I find myself continuously drawn to failed or broken causes, trauma, I empathize so profoundly with the pain and mourning of the world. sure, I am seduced and often by the immeasurable beauty of a sunrise, intoxicated by the play of light and the awakening of the world on an early morning. Yet still, I am a child. I am certain I am toxic. I am mentally ill and for that I don't know what to make of it. Fuck I don't even know what mentally ill even means. all I know is that I don't always feel well. So often I feel so deeply and I allow my emotions to get the best of me.
Anyway just typing this is so uncomfortable. I don't know why I feel the need to even name it. so often I feel like people look at me with these eyes of judgment. Like all is well with me on the surface and in many ways it is. but some of it, the part of I'm happy, that part itself its a lie. I don't know if happiness is even a thing. I think realistically it's found in moments. Of course I have those, many in fact. But it's such a fleeting thing some days. I can't ever seem to catch it. Anyway this is just another moment, another evening full of emotion and meaningless intensity. I'm alive.
