It’s so easy for me to manipulate my feelings with words. I can talk myself into anything and it usually doesn’t take much convincing. I used to think that if I wrote something sad, it was because I was feeling sad, but it never occurred to me that maybe I was feeling sad as a result of writing something sad – as a result of dwelling. I used to think writing was a way of ridding myself of sadness, of getting it somewhere outside of myself, but it honestly usually just makes things worse.
Isn’t it strange how sadness is a universal experience, yet happiness is so personal? You can always identify with someone’s sadness, you can always find some sort of truth in pain, but it’s so much harder to understand someone’s happiness. I often find myself agreeing whole-heartedly when I hear of someone’s grief, sympathizing with every emotion and sometimes can even feel them reawakened within myself, yet when I hear of someone’s bliss I can only listen. I can only observe. The things that make us happy are so unique to who we are, but the things that make us sad are so… standard.
Just goes to show how momentous happiness is. It should never be taken for granted.
little gingerella 