The Bloody Doors Off

I have a complicated history with being happy.

Even the idea of being happy.

It’s not that I can’t. It’s holding onto it. Like sand, running through my fingers. Warm from the sun, tickling the skin. But eventually the last grains fall away, leaving only an impression of what was.

And then I look again. Reach again.

It’s funny, and a bit sad, how the definition of ‘happiness’ changes with circumstance as well. But when you really examine it, it’s a puzzle. Happiness comes in pieces that eventually you lock together and forms a complete picture.

And I don’t think I’ve ever had that. Sometimes I’m not even sure what the picture is.

Right now, there are several pieces I’m trying to fit together. Finding work, writing the new draft of the play. I’ve been trying to find work for over 18 months now. I’ve had minor success with freelancing, but nowhere near what I need to survive, let alone thrive. And my moods are tied into self-worth, and I need to feel positive in order to write. So if I’m not having an ‘up’ day, nothing’s going to spark my creativity.

But then there’s last night. I was at Subspace. I met Bowmanville (yes, I now know her name, but last night I only knew where she lived; she thought the nickname was cute). We scened, which was quite natural. (Got to love when that happens.) And after, asked if I wanted to smoke. Which I don’t any longer. Even though I’d forgotten my e-cigarette at home last night. (I debated going back for it but didn’t; turns out my willpower is better than I anticipated.) But, she said, would I like to smoke?

Ah.

I have a complicated history with that as well. Didn’t try it for the first time until my late 20s. Not a habitual user in any sense of the word. And it can affect me in really odd ways. Last October it made me (more) paranoid and anxious. So I swore off it until pretty much the new year. And last night, as I took my leave before I became a babbling mess, inspiration struck like thunder. Opened avenues for the play that, as I reflect on it today, are pretty fuckin’ brilliant.

But do you think I can write it tonight?

HA.

I’m not happy at the moment.