Rough Drafts
A Series of Pieces Written in The Wild
#16
The times I find it hardest to write are the times I feel contentment. Even happiness. It’s not that I don’t want to write about the bird’s song, seeing clearly cuz the rain is gone, or how flowers are fireworks in plant form. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to talk about it because I just want to live in it. Bask in the lightness I feel in my body, enjoy the clarity of my mind. If I don’t do that, can I say I’ve ever lived?
These moments can be fleeting. It’s all so fragile and temporary. I don’t want to miss it by leaving to jot down words that won’t even come close to the feeling. I used to think that writing and speaking was harder for me during good times because I thought that ease + contentment = boring. That pain and sorrow is what made life most interesting, while at the same time frowned upon to speak too much about.
Other times I think about how expressing my joy and happiness led to judgment, dismissal, or literally telling me to be quiet. So, I did. I started feeling shame about the things that felt good and goofy to me. Sometimes to the point I gave them the cold shoulder and, eventually, forgot they were even there at all. I want to apologize to myself for shutting it all down. For becoming my own biggest bully so I would no longer risk being bullied by others.
I don’t think Happy is the main goal of life, but it is an important aspect of it. It can help with pointing out what’s beautiful in this world and the little miracles that happen everyday: an inhale, a cloud creeping across the sky, a head bonk against a leg for treats, Barbie. Maybe I’m happy because I saw Barbie.
