My fingers race across the keyboard in the odd manner that I type (with about five fingers?). It’s like having a session of ‘empty your soul’, where I mentally search through the caverns of my heart, seeking out every emotion that hides itself within and wringing them dry. Those are the words that form this blog, scribbles on pieces of scrap paper or free postcards, becoming random entries of my non-existent journal. And then my heart feels a little lighter and I pick myself up a little higher from that place that sucks the light out of my life. The problems never magic themselves away from my everyday, no matter how much I force myself to write, but the point is, I feel better. I’d pull out scientific evidence that actually exists about this, but I’m too lazy to do so. Just take my word for it.
It’s funny cause I’ve always thought of myself as one of those who write better when they’re upset, and I’ve just been told so last night.
You know, I’m never ready to make the compromise; I’d always, always rather be happy than be able to write well.
