I seem to have trouble writing anything that I consider good lately. I'm begining to wonder if it stems from the fact that while I am not dancing on the clouds type happy; I am content. It is as if I never learned the langauge of happiness well enough to write in it. Instead of words rolling off of my tongue like honey they clutter and clot and stumble. Like a foreign language where you know all the words intellectually, but you do not yet think in the language. So, you have to spend time mentally translating ruining the flow of the language. Perhaps I have never truly learned the language of happiness.
The language of darkness, anger, and loneliness however I understand. When I am angry, sad, or just lonely words pour from my veins like fresh blood from an open wound, spattering on to the page leaving vivid images in it's crimson wake. Perhaps I just need to be in a bad mood to write anything decent.