A Paradox.
Is happiness taking away my writing skills?
To write is to scrape the wound and let it bleed again with fresh blood. I am terrified to revisit my old traumas and past, and writing keeps me sane.
The transformation from a reckless teenager to a responsible adult is scary; is obligation taking my art- my words away? Organizing words to write an article is another art; flowing words abruptly like our emotions is another.
I want to write like Virginia Woolf wrote about solitude, Sylvia Plath wrote about agony, Van Gogh wrote about life, Kafka wrote about the unknown emotion, Charles Bukowski wrote about his deepest sorrow, and like how Chinmai used to write about her feelings. But I am afraid, afraid of the insanity it contains. I am afraid to revisit my absurdity, recollect my sadness, and reexamine my emotion; am I afraid of expressing them?
I worry,
Is happiness taking away the part of me that keeps me sane, the part that keeps me in touch with my soul, the part that embraces my insanity, the part that can make me insane? It is a paradox!
