I always suspected that my misery was my muse. When I am at my lowest the words take over my being and I stand outside myself watching something real finally happening in my life. I read back the words and feel at ease, emptied of my angst. On the good days I am without, I have no words to spill. On my good days the thoughts chase themselves around my mind and detach before completion. On my good days I sit and wonder what it is I am going to do with my life, what I am capable of doing with my life. I never believed writing was a talent, I assumed everyone could write; everyone has a story, everyone has something to say. Then the days turn into months and the pages remain blank, all because my neurosis is at bay.
So it would appear that my good days are actually my worst.