I just deleted a whole 400 words I had written. They were that bad.

The worst part of being happy – for me – is that I have lost my ability to write.

When I was depressed and living a life that was not meant for me, words came freely. Easily. It was cathartic. I would use my words to understand and release my feelings.

I have been working towards happiness this past year. And I have gotten there. The road has been bumpy. And I have done some seriously stupid shit. But I have gotten it all out of my system.

I am happy with myself and where I am.

But the removal of my angst has caused a removal of my words. And I hate that.

I love words. I was always proud of my ability to write. The thought that my words depended on my unhappiness causes me a great deal of…anger.

Anger? Why anger?

Is it the loss of control? Is it that those (people, things, circumstances) that caused my unhappiness have taken this final revenge?

I KNOW that’s stupid! Stop rolling your eyes at me. I’m thinking things through.

Have you read Robert Frosts poetry? It is so…perfect. I wish I could write lines like “and miles to go before I sleep”. It is utterly brilliant.

I will never be, nor have ever been, a Frost or Poe or Angelou. But I want to be Sairah. The poet Sairah.

I want my words back.