suddenly there’s a blush in the sky - the springs start. weather’s warm way of trying to make up for our ice-caged hearts. reality, now, is a river in which it is pleasant to dip shoulder-deep. one need not flee the frost anymore, escaping to the white warm sheets of paper in writing. being happy, one doesn’t need to write.
i battled with this issue before. and so i know how joy is able to disarm and leave one self -complacent: too satisfied to create anything outside of the given. accepting the currents of the present, when they are favorable, is both sweet and sour, both bliss & bitterness. for in the case that i do decide to write, i run the risk of fencing off with words the greenery that has grown around me. in this case i would be ungrateful. but if i fail to pick up the pen, then i discard the chance of change. being both happy and a writer could be the change that i need, desire, long for, yearn.