Unpoetic

It's become a burden to write. I used to be able to put everything in words, all the anguish and memories and worries. I feel like everyone is playing tug-of-war with me; they need this, they need that, can't you do this better, why are you just sitting there, what are you going to do next, if you don't do it now, you might now have tomorrow... and on and on. I'm tired. I really am. I'm tired of being responsible, and, yet, that's the way I am. I've tried to be reckless, but it's against my nature. I tried to get mad drunk and dance on a bar, but, instead, I fell asleep on my friend's couch. I tried to drive away, but came home in two days. I am more relaxed at work than I am at home.

It was easier to write about love two years ago when I thought that the only way my heart would ever be was broken. I'm actually happy now, and it's hard to write about being happy-in-love without cringing. Really. My feelings seem less intense when verbalized, because I don't hurt as much. There are many eloquent words for pain and sadness and anguish. Also, I whine more now than think. I hate feeling anything when I'm stressed because sometimes it's paralyzing. So, what do you talk about when you're happy-in-love and stressed because life seems a bit more difficult than you expect? Nothing, you take a breather, you leave, you try to find something dramatic or worthwhile. Or you let it find you.