I don’t feel good when I go too long without writing something. I realized that this morning, as I was stumbling over my various pets, trying to feed them all, and give them the affection they seem to particularly need the moment I wake up in the morning. As if they go into some type of deficit during the hours I am asleep at night, all of them blocking my way, head butting my ankles, trying to murder me. Trust me, if I were to die of clumsiness, no one would question it- the animals would get off, Scott-free. Whatever Scott-free means. What does that mean, anyway? Hold on, I’m going to google it real quick…Huh! It means to get off without paying taxes! Who knew? Well, I guess that doesn’t really apply, then, does it? Anyway, it really doesn’t matter, because this has nothing to do with what I was wanting to write about…or does it?
Because, see? I feel better, already. Just that I wrote something, not very meaningful, but hopefully, a little amusing, at least…it makes me happy. And that’s the thing- even when I am super happy, and everything in my life is excellent, writing about it, sharing it with whoever wants to partake…it just makes it that much better. And, when I feel like shit, and everything is falling apart, but I can put it down “on paper” (you know what I mean, don’t be an asshole), it helps me make some sense of it all, at least. Sometimes, I can even coax something beautiful out of what appeared to be nothing more than a mountain of shit, minutes earlier. Writing helps me.
Let’s use gratitude for my next example- I am capable of nearly manic bouts of gratitude for my life. Just the fact that I am no longer killing myself on a daily regime of methamphetamine and rage is all it takes for me to get real grateful, real quick. Anyway, do you think I can just walk around, bursting at the seams with little rainbow beams of happiness and gratitude? NO. People edge away from you at the grocery store when you are that happy. Trust me, it has happened to me a time or two. In this day and age, really, really happy people are thought to be either crazy or dangerously drugged, and they are not the ones you want your children to make eye contact with. So I can write about it, which is good, because I can share it with you, when you are receptive to it (rather than when you are trying to figure out which cereal to buy, which, lets face it, is pretty freaking stressful), and it also removes some of the pressure of wanting so badly to share my happiness, from me.
Also, I can write sappy things, full of love, for people, that I could never in a million years say to their faces. I mean, that would just be awkward. Plus, can you imagine any child, of any age, sitting still to listen to their mother’s mushy declaration of love and devotion? I hardly think so. Besides, any mother would make it about four words in before she interrupted herself by saying something like “Godammit, don’t roll your eyes at me, I am TRYING to tell you how much I love you!”, thereby pretty thoroughly killing the mood. As an added bonus, unless something changes, I have been told I will die someday. My words will not. So, these things that I write for the people I love will be around for them when I am not. Unless, of course, they happen to die first, in which case, my words will only serve to depress me. My children, however, have been forbidden to die before me, so I don’t worry about that. Much. Well, I try not to, anyway.
Well, my coffee is done. I guess I’ll go have some. Hope you enjoyed this little thing as much as I did. 🙂