(uninspired)
I have said that joy is less of an inspiration for poetry than sorrow. So why now, when I am
sad, do I feel less inspired than before, when I was happy? I didn't write many poems then,
and I don't feel like writing them now either. I suppose I didn't realize that instead of
internalizing, I would push my joy to the outer layers of my self, and let the whole world know
I was happy. In this, I was not writing any poems, but living them. And now, when I am sad, I
must hide it under a veil of smiles. If I am unhappy, people will feel sorry for me. It is
alright for people to feel sorry for me, but to say so is sometimes too much to handle. If it
is the right person, a close friend who understands, it is alright. But also when everybody
knows, when they see me, I will see looks of pity in their eyes, and that will destroy me. If
I can pretend nothing happened, it hurts less. I can console myself in privacy, and make the
slow recovery that is neccesary. Fear not, I will rejoin society, but not for a while. And
when I do, I will be a different person. Perhaps not noticably (except to myself), but I will
have changed. Already I feel a stirring inside me of these emotions that wish to escape.
For a while I had a release, and I felt grand. But now, I only hurt from the strain of witheld
feelings. The thoughts that I had, the dreams of the near future, are all gone now, only
memories remain, and those hurt as well. Now I reflect on them, causing myself pain, but it is
part of my self therapy. It is how I have learned to deal with the pain; let it come, but
control it. And as I write a poem that I thought uninspired, I can only shake my head in
amazement . . . and confusion.
-Miostiek, 3/11/97