happiness writes white.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. So long, it seems, that I should begin with a “dear diary” or something equally as frank.

Strange how something that once took up so much of my life – was my life, really – is now something I no longer have time for.

Life is different. Not bad different, but rather, quite the opposite. It’s simple. I didn’t know that life could be simple. I suppose this implies that my life was seemingly hard before. That’s not true. I’ve had a nice life. I just didn’t realize that things could fall into place. And when I say fall, don’t think I mean without work. Don’t think I mean that I’ve just stood by and watched this life happen.

Because that’s not it at all.

I’ve worked very hard. I’ve overcome fears – fears of commitment and failure and even success. I’ve come to terms with inadequacies and shortcomings – with my inadequacies and shortcomings. I’ve learned to listen and accept. I’ve learned that life takes work. Love takes work. Everything takes work. But by work don’t think I mean the kind you do in front of a computer. Don’t think I mean the kind you do, grudgingly, in adverse conditions, under a time crunch. I mean work as it pertains to time. I mean work as it pertains to a conscious effort to change the way you interact. The way you spend your minutes, the way you interpret a word, a gesture, a glance.

There are few shortcuts that land you in the apt hands of greatness.

Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t written. What’s worse than the wondering, though, is when I sit down to write and not a letter comes out. Is it me? Is it my environment? Maybe I have nothing to write about? That’s not it – that’s not it at all. I have endless stories to tell.

Stifled. Sometimes I feel stifled. I’m surrounded by creativity ten hours a day, sometimes seven days a week. One would assume this would lend itself to endless inspiration. Even I would fall pray to this assumption. Maybe writing was a phase. Maybe it was something that came and went with the city of subdued excitement. Maybe it is something I no longer do – a skill I may no longer attribute to myself – writer.

Translation [fear]: I’m less creative because I do not write.

There may be truth to that. Or it may be that have I simply found less solitary means of harnessing my creativity. In my yard. In my home. In my increasingly filtered group of close friends. In the way I love – the people, the things. It could be a blessing – one less thing to aspire to. One less thing I have to keep on my list of qualifications. Writer. There seems to be a lot of weight tied to that word. A lot of pressure. A lot of expectations. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there’s too much riding on that word – too many associations, obligations, expectations.

Maybe I haven’t completely over come my fears [of failure, of success]. Maybe we’re just back to square one.

But now, life is simple.

Ex-writer: there, that’s better.

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