"It's hard to write poetry when you're happy," I tell my friend. She agrees. She once wrote songs about her teenage angst and mistakes. I often pursued darkness just so I could write about it.
And now I'm happy and it's hard to know where to begin with words.
I just returned from California.
I did not write or pick up a book while I was there. I miss these parts of myself, and yet sometimes I'm so happy just to experience being and maybe that's okay too.
This visit, like most others, was dripping in gold. Golden sunshine, my golden skinned beau, golden hills we ran up in the morning sun, and my heart illuminated, feeling young again.
There were several moments when I wondered how I could deserve such happiness. When did life become so simple? Even with all of the complications, my needs are becoming simpler and this love is so good, dare I say it's simple?
And of course I worry. I want to be closer to him. And to do that I need a job, more funds in the bank, a visa, a driver's license, a lot of change and goodbyes. We're not rushing but some days we are both impatient.
At least the love is simple. And he makes me feel like loving me is simple (although he also says that I'm like Russian literature.)
The rest will figure itself out. With some hard work, adaptability, trust...and hell, maybe even writing it out.