It's funny.

Had a lousy day and thought about writing something. It's been a long, long time. I've been feeling less than inspired lately, and today was especially sad. I won't bore you with the details, but I decided it was best to just channel it, preferably somewhere where few were likely to see it. The last thing the internet needs is another sad sap complaining to his all his equally self-pitying friends. Anyway, after finally figuring out the email/password combo I used for this blog, I started to read through some of my old posts. Ok, all my old posts. So many were so embarrassingly depressing. And really, that's not all that surprising, as much of a roller coaster the adolescent years are. But how ironic, I thought, "Here I am wanting to write again, again, desperately sad." As many times as I try to deny the correlation between sadness and creativity, experience proves me wrong. Not to say that's exclusive. There's plenty of brilliant art created by happy, stable people. But there's a certain undefinable quality to the work of the tortured artist. Not that I'm calling myself one by any means. I'm hardly an artist and my life is much better than I let myself believe most days. Just a thought, I suppose. I guess more than anything, personally, my drive to write in times like these has less to do with the melancholy sparking my creative drive, and more to do with the sheer absence of a friend to lend an ear. But the blank page, ah, it will always be here. Never judging. Only listening. And sometimes that's all that's needed.