My fingers to keys or my pen to paper I have yet to be able to let my words escape in anything other than run on sentences and not so pointless rambles for a long time. I realized how depressing my poetry is, how regretful or contemplating it makes me feel and when I feel either of those things I find a sudden need to call him and here him tell me he loves me. This work I'm writing now is not a goodbye, just information and a sad excuse as to why I have yet to update.
I find myself unwilling to write down happy things. Writing down happy things makes them seem to fade. And my life has become a happy thing. While there are still consequences of past actions and challenges to come, some with in the next twenty four hours, I know that he is by my side, as are adults who could change the mind of the person who could make this for real. I know I'm not making much sense. I apologize. I am simply so … enraptured that my life seems unworthy of writing down. And that is a good thing. I mean to say that … well, who reads happy things? I don't. I never have. Because, quoth my danger ridden friend AMB, "The reason I don't spend hours on end writing happy poems inspired by happy events in my life is because when those happy events are actually taking place, who has the time to stop everything they're doing to go write a poem about them?"
I cannot say this will be my last work. I mean, I'll bet I write within the next day or so. But this is simply a note, mostly to me…A note to tell myself why I have ceased holing up in room with nothing but a journal and a pen.
I suppose this is almost sad… that my writers block developed into something oh so much worse, but I am happy. Well, not happy, just… accepting. My life is worth living now. I don't have time to write about it.