Writing for Happiness

Right now,  I’m feeling pretty bloody miserable. As many of ny usual readers may know, this is nothing new in my life. Ever since I was a child, I went through these motions: of sadness, frustration,  distant obliviousness. I’ve felt these things at every awful thing that I’ve seen,  heard and be involved in. Unfortunately,  the fictional often gets confused with reality because I’ve been there. I don’t like to think about it, but I’ve been there. That’s hard for many to understand because they don’t know. I’m jealous of those that have never had to witness the true evil this world has to offer, and no, I’m not referring to the woman that just cut you up on the roundabout or the young man next door that blasts his music up loudly at stupid hours. Real evil.

I recently watched 10 Cloverfield Lane. Hated the first one; thought it was lame. The new one had me quivering and left me shaken for hours after because there are monsters like that in the world. The worst horror movies are the ones based on true life or could pass off as reality. The character of Howard could be your relative, a family friend,  your neighbour. He could be the guy that delivers your pizza. It may seem ridiculous but I’m afraid of men because in my life, women have been my protectors, my comfort and men have been a weapon in so many different ways. Why would anyone want to watch something bad they relate to for entertainment? Why would they choose to be reminded of when moment X actually happened to them?

I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just feel crap and whenever I feel crap, I write. From the age of 10, I wrote to escape my crappy home life. At 15, I wrote to escape my parents crappy divorce. And since then I’ve just wanted to escape this world in general. This isn’t one of those. This is confrontation,  not escapism. Both are apparently meant to work.  I don’t feel any lift though.


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