writing and unhappiness

  I just noticed that, probably, nobody writes when they are happy because they are simply busy being so satisfied with themselves. As for me also, writing and reading is more easily done when I am less content with my life. It may sound funny for me to say that I actually try to find moments when I feel unhappy enough to get into writing. Feeling discontent must bring forth a hunger for words. We gulp them up until we feel full, burp and vomit them out until we feel empty. In this way, writing feels very similar to digestion. The pencil protrudes its sharpened tooth to naw across the pages, it eats away the paper with silent slicing sounds while leaving a track of black lead behind.

  Thus the pencil can be defined as an essential animal to be bred in writing. My pencil is now much like a sheep. It wanders out while taking chunks of grass here and there, leaving tracks everywhere, anywhere it wants. However, it has not yet truely seen or gone beyond the invisible fence, beyond being merely herded. My drawing has certainly surpassed this cultivated limit. The lines are free and fluent. That may be why I feel an urge to roam out as far as drawing with my writing as well. It will probably take a period of time where my only means of expression would be writing, which I expect will be a very sad period. In the meantime, I think I will stay content in the fields of glory and happiness, graze in the sun for a while. I believe these enjoyable times will pass and my unhappiness will, someday again, take my pencil across the territories.