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i used to write well.

i was the brat getting 97% in English class, or only missing one point off my exam, etc.

but no one has asked me to write lately.

it's not a matter of someone actually *asking* but the things in life that ask you to write.

school doesn't ask. sure, you have to be able to put essays together well, construct valid arguments with supporting evidence blah blah blah. that's not what i'm after.

i have the girl i love. i should be writing odes to the wonderful relationship we have, the things i love doing with her, the way her eyes sparkle. no no no. that's not the way it works with me.

my creativity is stifled by happiness. when i was longing for her, i would write pages and pages of beautiful prose, tales of hurt and desire, necessity and obstacles. by the time she finally fell into my arms, i was looking the other way. i knew that the love for her then, without her, and the love now, with her, would be worlds apart. it wouldn't feel the same. and it doesn't.

i'm happy.

and i can't write worth shit.

and i don't know who to be here. i have a mind full of sharp, witty observations, that's far too busy to look. i have a heart that's forgotten a lot of pain and loss.

when i was in 11th grade, my teacher described beckett's "waiting for godot" as a 'tragicomedy'. (i thought it was a piece of crappe, but that's just me)

but that's what i am, a tragicomedy.

but there's little tragedy these days.

what am i hoping for here?