April Seven.

Sometimes I like to pull out all of my old journals and go back through the agonising lines of scripture that equally tore me apart and put me back together writing. I'd open up to any page, and read over the lines filled with so much pain.

April 7. 

It's hard to believe
that I 

can only write my best

   when I am at my worst. 

It's disappointing how I can

  sit in the house for days

 basking in my own misery 

and write something that

  could be so beautiful 

      of something so ugly. 

I spend days wishing I could feel

  anything but this

    only to do nothing

 with the good days. 

I hope one day after I die

  I have written something 

 somewhat important so people can
understand

  how much you can hurt yourself

  without even moving.

April 7 was an insignificant day at the time, it was the 97th day into the year, it was Autumn. It was bland. But April 7 stuck with me for the rest of the year.

Why is it, that as writers, we tear ourselves to shreds over words. These formations that can describe the most alluring tree in the green, and the love we feel when she smiles in her sleep and sheer joy when you can feel yourself growing with someone.  Yet - I feel, the easiest words to form are the most painful.

I can't pick up a pen and write five pages about a good day, it just doesn't work like that.  I can pick up a pen and write five pages on a day where I fought with myself to get out of bed in the morning which made me late to work without any coffee. I could write five pages on how I wish I never got out of bed that day. And five pages more on the constant anxiety that someone will see my constant anxiety.  But if you gave me a blank journal and told me to write great things in it, the book would probably get thrown on my desk and collect dust.  And I wish it were never like that.

I wish most things weren't as they are. It's as if, in life, our main ambition is to find the perfect balance of happiness.  Yet when happiness seems so far away, and we can't get out of bed, or leave the house, or communicate in any form we are ill. And it's the worst illness to have.

Always, 

em