I haven’t been able to write. Somewhere during the end of 2015, I couldn’t stand what I was writing. I was taking a moment of sadness and spinning away with it. I was sick of being sad and writing about sad. I was sick of the aura of sadness that enveloped me. I needed to go a different way. I started painting again. It was the therapy I needed. The colors, the brush, the wet color on the brush sliding on a paper making a happy picture. Anything you put on paper with color is happy. I needed happy. It worked. I got out of my funk, got a job, got my perspective back, got over. I kept painting almost on a daily basis for the rest of 2016. Things changed with the passage of time and I have a painting for almost all of the days. Painting that makes me happy, even though I might have cried on the day. Maybe that’s why I stopped writing. My writing made me sad, and I didn’t want to be sad.
But here we are. This is 9th April, 2017. A lot has changed since the beginning of the year. The change doesn’t matter. Change messes me up, it has always messed me up. On 9th April, 2017 I know it will eventually work itself out like it did so many times before. But what bothers me about the past few months is that I have stopped communicating. With myself. Or with anybody else who matter. The saddest moment had been crying on the bathroom floor wanting to tell anybody who cares how wrong and shitty and bad it is but also wanting to tell nobody. What would they even tell me that they haven’t told me before?
It will be okay. I know.
Be strong. I know.
Focus on your work. I know.
You are luckier than you think. I know.
Instead of reaching out, I cried harder because I felt I hadn’t made a friend I would want to go to at 2 AM knowing that they would comfort me. I was under the impression I did and I no longer had them around. Looping back to square one and crying harder. At moments of despair such as these, I always think of killing myself. Which makes me cry more because it’s a cop out and all the faces I would hurt immensely float around in my head. A lot of things makes me cry when I am crying on the bathroom floor at 2 AM. I don’t know how to continue on with this thread of thought.
I will start anew. Things are looking up. I still have difficulty facing a Sunday. For some odd reason, Sunday depresses me the most. But as I said, it’s looking up. I am smiling more. I am reading up on things I love. I have the inner unrest to do something with my time again. All good, healthy, happy things.
I want to write again. About thoughts that pop up in my head. About things I love with passion. About people I meet. Books I read. Days I live. Maybe a sad story or two. Balanced with a happy painting.