Now adays...

Now adays I write less cause the only thing I really write about is sad love. 
It’s like I’m mourning the present because it’s fickle - it will pass,

I mourn the past too, that things I held onto have slipped through my fingers and all that is left is ashes. 

No, it’s not like a phoenix, nothing rises from this ashes.

Sometimes i stare at my mother and I try to really see her, not just look, cause I know a day will come that the vessel she calls body will betray her, no longer hold her, and even if I stare at the body before it’s taken away, before it’s put away, even if the body is right in front of me, the person I call mother will be far far away.
I try to take it all in before time robs me of it, her shape, her cloth, the way she walks, I’m looking intensely so that maybe one day I’ll remember it precisely, staring intensely so that it saves as a memory, a core memory I’ll will one day find solace in.

That’s why I’m grateful for pictures, it might seem weird the pictures that i take, the pictures that i keep, they are not flattering but i know one day I’ll just want to see again, behold something from now to help me remember what it really was, flattering or not.

But pictures are just pictures. They don’t capture what my heart is feeling.
When moments like this occur, usually i want to write but my writing pad is always far away. 

In such moments I calm myself, I tell myself that the best things will be experienced and there won’t be any pen to write it down with, no camera to snap it with, there’s no back up anywhere that I might get it later from, maybe a record exist in heaven, in the afterworld maybe.

Cause I’ve experienced, I experience beautiful moments, moments that fill me with something, with feelings too heavy, too diverse, too many, to really describe with words…and as everyone of those moment passes me by, I get – scared? That I’ve just let it go, I’ve not documented it, it’s gone, I’ll never have it again. And it breaks my heart, everything beautiful will not always be captured, if it’s not captured, then what do I have? How do I relish it? 

All I have is the moment. To live it fully, but sometimes my head is always in the clouds and no matter how hard I look, I can’t really see, that’s why my writing…. Is everything to me.

When I begin writing, I know how to sort my feelings, how to phrase and rephrase what I’m thinking and what I’m feeling…and going back to read them is my own sort of teleportation to the past, to the moment in question.

But recently, my writing, it’s all filled with melancholy. 
I’ve noticed that when I’m happy i do not write, cause I’m lost, for good, lost in the euphoria of happiness, there’s no stopping me, I just laugh and laugh and laugh, it’s like being on a, how do you call those things? Roller coasters. It keeps spinning and spinning, you enjoy it until it stops, then (maybe) your head starts banging, you (want to)throw up, sometimes before the ride stops, before it gets to the end you know you're going to be sick, then really you get sick, that’s how happiness is for me. 

I can be happy, doing something that makes me happy, being with someone that makes me happy and while at it, the dread starts coming, I know it will end, the unhappiness will set in cause happiness always comes to an end.

When happiness ends, that’s when my writing prowess comes out. Words begin forming, taking shape, creating allusions and taking up meaning.
Sometimes I think, am I to be a sad writer? Someone who only knows,who is good at writing sad things? Cause sadness is the only thing I relate to, sadness is the only subject I’m well versed in. 

It’s not to say that I’m always sad, No, I’m always happy, but being happy at times feels strange, like it’s not really who I am. 

I’ve been trying this week to write a somewhat funny piece and I’ve been stuck, everything about it feels not original, imposter like. Not hilarious ,not funny.

I don’t know how to make up jokes, I thought it was creative block, I left the writing and began doodling elsewhere, in the end? I got a sad piece of writing. No stress.

There are writers that sadness is their mojo, like Akwake Emezi but even if courtesy of sadness you turn out amazing work, when sadness is all that is inside of you it’s disheartening, it's scary.

Being sad is not who I want to be.

I want to feel other things, like happiness that never ends, laughter that is still laughter underneath, like love that is love no matter where you scratch, or how hard you scratch.

I don’t want sad things, I don’t want to relate to sad poetry, I just want to feel really happy things and that is my hope, my earnest wish, to be really happy before the year runs out.