hi, i’m tired.

for far too long now, i’ve been avoiding posting anything remotely noteworthy or personal on tumblr. anything that revealed any kind of passion or doubt. anything that was a thought of my own, actually. so much for liking to read my thoughts after i think them.

at first, i fled the platform because i was job hunting, and no human resources personnel are actually attracted to a person’s post about wanting a job so badly while that person is, at that very moment, applying for one. it’s not ambition at that point, it’s borderline desperation, and any position filled out of desperation only ends up in regret—a lesson i’ve learned far too many times to count. but that’s in the past now.

then, i didn’t blog because i was working. all the time. like i didn’t know how to stop, or if i even wanted to. it’s funny that when you start doing the things you love so much, you start to neglect the thing you love even more. and then it makes you doubt that love altogether. but wow, that’s a story told one too many times on this blog.

and now, as i sit here staring at an infinite to-do list, a blocked-out calendar and too many empty cups of coffee on my desk, i’m confronted with the fact that i haven’t effing blogged in so long because i’ve honestly forgotten how to think for myself. again. and i’ve been afraid that if i open up that Tumblr app on my iPhone in an effort to be eloquent or artistic or reflective or something other than what i’m paid to do, there will be nothing there for me to type. to rethink. to proudly hit the ‘publish’ button for, even if it’s only for myself.

[[as i type this, i’m once again debating just closing the browser and deleting this draft. because it’s embarrassing and unsubstantial and complete waste of internet space.]]

drained of creative energy.
drained of energy.
drained.

i literally can’t type anymore. putting a substantial post off until tomorrow, just like many other things i have yet to do. i keep thinking that “tomorrow” will have more hours in the day, but i’m repeatedly disappointed for some reason. (still waiting for my time-turner from a miss hermione granger…)

for the record though, i’m incredibly happy. at this point in my life, i really can’t ask for anything more.

…maybe that’s why i can’t write.

and she lives happily ever after.

stupid me. I thought stories had definite endings. especially when the words “happily ever after” appeared onscreen in some curly font with drop shadows, I solidified in my heart that those movie characters not only worked everything out in just enough time for animators to capture, but also that things ultimately—and I mean ultimately—stayed that way, forever. princesses who kissed their princes in the last frame stayed in love for eternity, talking animals who discover courage and acceptance by the end can never doubt their newfound identity. people who found themselves within the timespan that an audience was watching could never lose themselves again, even long after a time when a cameraman seemed to care.

but that’s all pure fiction—scripted, staged and executed for entertainment value. it’s not a documentary, it’s not even social commentary; it’s all part of a business plan to get our money and keep us busy for a couple hours. and I always happily bought into any animated tale’s empty promises and aspired toward their make-believe goal: happily ever after.

so when I hit adulthood, the unscripted truth hit me in the face that my “story” is atypical in comparison to others, in comparison to the stories I had always known. because maybe I’m not done writing. others aren’t really either, even if they seem to be. and happy endings are just stories that haven’t finished yet.

but honestly, I think I just misinterpreted the cliche phrase incorrectly for the past twenty years or so. I thought happiness requires certain templated circumstances in order to exist: prince charming, white horse, gorgeous castle and a crown to match. however, this coveted state of mind that people spend their lives chasing after is actually a choice, made actively for oneself and completely independent of any external factors. caged birds still sing when groveling in poverty, and pretty, rich people are still committing suicide while wearing fur coats and diamonds. no one is immune to crumbling circumstances, but everyone is capable of happiness. now. not after losing a few more pounds, after getting that job, after starting a relationship. the people who really do live happily ever after are the ones who don’t ever hope for any particular thing to happen in order to be happy.

in reality, that’s really all it takes.