“I am convinced that it’s not my destiny to be truly happy. Much like it wasn’t my mother’s destiny, nor my grandmother’s. True, there have been moments where the sparks of it lit up my soul like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. So bright…so bright that it hurt to feel them but I held on and burned and burned because when was the next time going to come…?

But, they fade. And after? It’s just garbage that needs to be swept.”

A soft, sad smile.

“But, for all that?”

The smile grew brighter for an instant.

“I still have Hope.

What do you have?”


Catalina Kiss

People want me to write.

I WANT to write.

But people don’t…can’t understand why I have a hard time with it. Least insomuch as I can figure. Unless I’m not figuring properly. But, I don’t think I’m wrong.

I think people see me as someone who is intelligent, creative, and can write an <insert type of fluff email here> and lo. Or, they’ve known me for so long (“The Before Times”) that they maybe think I can just do it again if I put my mind to it.

My mind is tired. As is the rest of me.

Writing isn’t just an off the cuff thing for me. Writing is me pouring my heart, guts, and soul into every word on the page, virtual or physical. I have a thousand bits of scenes in my head. I’ve got bits of dialogue from the last six-seven years in various note pad applications. And sometimes I’ve made them my email signature lines before I’ve actually put them anywhere else because it seemed like a good idea at the time. At least I’ll be able to copy and paste it later. Maybe.

Because every word, every pretty phrase, turn of the verb, making the the sentence dance like it’s the first time it’s ever been put to the page and your fingers fly over the keyboard and it’s there, it’s FUCKING THERE, your heart your soul your lungs your mind your spirit your body IT’S FUCKING THERE…

And then you obsess and obsess and is this really the way I want to word this no let’s try it this way nope not yet again and again and fucking again like you’re wearing the goddamn Red Shoes you obsess and obsess and then finally…finally…

I have cried writing scenes down. I have cried reading them afterwards. I’ve laughed while writing scenes down. And, yes, I’ve laughed reading them afterwards. I have twisted myself inwards outwards severnwaysfromSundaywards…and it’s still never enough.

So many writers abused alcohol, drugs, people. I get it now. So many of them were depressive that they had to write to get the demons gone. And others had to write to accept their demons.

You can write as many psychological profiles about “The Creative Spirit” as you want. They’re all going to be bullshit to a degree.

Because in order to write, you need to open up your chest like it’s a cheap polyester shirt with buttons popping like fireworks and expose your ribs and your lungs and your heart and ultimately your inner light like it’s the fucking Lighthouse of Alexandria, a beacon for everyone to see and stare at and make suppositions about, and then your mind is exposed like the books and scrolls and scraps within the Library for everyone to read and stare at and make suppositions about….

Until both are ultimately destroyed.

My mind is tired. My soul is tired. My body is truly starting to follow suit. Sorry. It’s just the way it is right now. Call it whatever you want. Fear. Cowardice. Depression. Apathy.

Unless you TRULY want to write? Like, for a living? You will never, ever understand THIS feeling. At all. I don’t really give a fuck. You aren’t Me.

It’s helplessness. And it Sucks.

And please do shove whatever “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” quote you may want to spout. Because I’m truly, truly tired of those.

I get it, Mom. Now. Truly. I’m sorry I ever smirked.