Happiness is a word lost in my book. In an attempt to find my definition of happiness, the definition that I was raised with. The definition that I believed for decades to be what others in my life strive for is actually a hollow shell that mimics a truth. Happiness is elusive; it is the dance between fantasy and reality. What had started out as a life gleaming with happiness, a new life, a new love and the desire to create and make new, slowly fell into a steady state of daily grinding life where the thought of creativity brings sorrow and pain.
When did all this change? When did the creativity end? Did it end with not having enough time to keep a house clean? Did it end with not having enough time during the weekend to find that quiet creative spark? It ended with all of those. It ended with the vain attempt at a ‘normal’ life with all its complexities and obligations. It starts with a long crowded ride in work, where I listen to people’s sorrows and sadness. Then the equally crowded ride home just in time to clean up for a restless night sleep.
The creativity is packed up in boxes in corners of the room and in the corners of my heart. It feels like a little death each day. The sounds and images brought to this world by my hands are silenced, as is my voice. I am a mere whisper of what was once a scream.
Anonymous
The Journey of a thousand miles 