I don’t write anymore.

This isn’t writing, at least not for me. I used to really write. It was effortless, my pen would touch my notebook and the words would pour out of me. I would read it over and almost not believe that the perfectly intertwined thoughts had actually made their way out of my head.

I miss it. I think a lot about what has changed, why I can’t ever seem to make anything sound right to me. Sometimes I think it is because I rarely sit down with pen and paper. Sometimes I think it is because I don’t get any time to really sit and think.

Mostly I think it is because I am happy.

The writing that I am most proud of came during some of my darkest times. It was born of heartbreak and misery. It was written with tears in my eyes and a shaking hand. It was written in fierce anger, my teeth tearing at my bottom lip. It was written faster than I even knew I was thinking, my mind almost numb while tying to protect itself.

I don’t live with those feelings that inspired some of my best anymore. I have put them behind me, not forgotten but closed in a room I have no reason to visit.  I am not on a ship in a rocky sea, trying so hard to hang on. I am stable and I have both my feet planted on solid ground. I am happy. I am loved.

It’s a fair trade, but I still miss it.