Neurotic Ramblings

“Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind” —  Marcel Proust

I was talking to a friend last night about school and we got to talking about my passion for writing.  I hadn’t thought about it as that in a long time.  Passion.

I used to be big on writing poetry.  My words were fueled by anger, grief, pain, selfishness, overall self-pitty.  My emotions inspired me to write.

Now it’s different.  I can’t put words together the way I used to.  It just doesn’t work.  The feelings don’t flow out the same.  Everything comes out in bits and pieces making up choppy sentences.

I don’t write as thoughtlessly as I was once able to. I am inclined to go back and read what I wrote to see if I can find a better way of expressing myself.  I’m not sure I like this.

Words are supposed to flow freely, not be constrained by editorial marks and second thoughts.  At least written words, anyway.

And I’ve completely gotten off subject here.

Back to happiness and not being inspired by it.

When I was a child all my poems were about love, and boyfriends and all that sappy stuff you think about before your heart has ever been jaded.

I’m not sure at what exact moment a flip was switched, but I couldn’t write a happy poem to save my life.  And I liked it that way.

But now it feels as if I have to be in an extreme mood to feel up to par and write in order to share my views and happenings with the world.  [read: all three of you readers ]

My thoughts are always more profound when I’m sad.  They’re always more pronounced when I’m angry.

When I’m happy, well, they’re just there.  Not consuming my every activity, not influencing the way I carry along.

Am I looking to be sad in order to feel alive?  Am I looking for a cop out and trying to be this suffering creative mind?  Who knows.

All I know is I’m at my best when I’m not at my greatest.