20 September 2012
You ask me why writers are so sad, words full of gloom. We are lying side by side. My eyes wander the vast white of your ceiling, trying to find my answer in its bright neon glow in the morning darkness that comes with two hours past the beginning of a new day.
I tell you that with writing, there is a purging. Sadness is released like the woosh of a bursting dam, and there is a scraped clean feeling in one’s chest afterward.
Writers brood and let the storm clouds color to a fresh bruise, and when we’re full to burst, we command the rain to fall.
We’re the gods to to our own little world.
And happiness floats, like butterflies, birds, dandelion seeds, the sun. It soars on, delicate like silk. We keep it tied like balloon strings to children’s wrists until it’s shot down, and we must painstakingly rebuild again.
Love is the exception. We are in love with love. We shout and whisper and confess love to the expanses of pages. It is a jubilee, a blindfolded dance that makes our bodies hurt all over and it’s beautiful and sad, too.
So in short, we’re not always sad. You just don’t always join in the cheering, dance the dance, or attend the party.
Give me a closer read, darling.
Writers... • Opuss № I