I worry that words are failing me. Or that I am failing words.
If monotony sets in - stability, normalcy, quintessential small town life,
What will I write about?
If I long for nothing, if I find I am happy most days,
what shall I put on paper?
Happiness? Is there such a thing?
Or have I hoped for it for so long, that it's actually an illusion?
A facade I've bought into. What will I write about, when I'm happy?
Am I happy?
Or am I faking it?

I don't want to fake it with you.


  1. Somehow these lines capture my state right now ...

  2. Sometimes I'm afraid I only fake happiness. Surely I've not completely lost the art of being happy? Oh, I don't know if I ever had it. But anyway...

    Strange (or perhaps natural) how pain is so conducive to writing. No matter what you're writing.

    I hope you rise one morning and find that you are, without a doubt, happy. xxx