There’s some good that can come from feeling down. The punchline to most jokes is someone getting hurt and if that’s your life, now you’ve got something to work with. If nothing bad’s happened to you yet, you’ll have to make it up, and that’s a lot harder.
And so the first time I got my heart broke, I took to the streets with my trench coat, Walkman, and a pack of smokes. I didn’t smoke, but it felt like the right thing to do, to hurt myself in small increments.
I internalized the lyrics from the sad songs, and made them my own: they were sung for me. Now, I write them for others who feel bad. It’s a kind of camaraderie, the blues.
A blogger friend commented on one of my posts this week, “Your posts are kind of dark…are you okay?” I was touched, and took it to heart. I wonder this too, when I keep playing the same dark, depressive music. Why I find myself standing in the back yard listening to an owl hooting high up in a tree, waiting to be heard.