It's the Only Thing That There's Just Too Little Of

My eyes flew open early this morning, as the sun wasn't shining through my bedroom window, and I felt something funny in my chest. Not like a facehugger or anything, it was more along the lines of good old fashioned happiness. It was like there was a Chesty Balloon of Exuberance living near my heart, and when that happens, you don't ask any questions, you just go with the flow.

I felt like writing a love letter.

My fingers flew across the keyboard as though possessed by Cupid himself. Soon, I felt that I needed to take a break or else the love would take me over and I would turn into some sort of Love Vortex and take out the whole neighborhood, love style. I saved the letter and made the fatal mistake of taking inventory in the old Drafts folder of my Inbox. My eyes fell on an old love letter I had sent recently, which I opened.

I soon found my Chesty Balloon deflating. My face was twisting in agony over my mushy metaphors, cheeseball anecdotes, and overall poor representation of how I feel. I couldn't figure it out. I've written a lot of things in my lifetime that warranted a positive response from readers. I've gotten As on papers in school. I read real books and not just Star Magazine. I frequently employ the use of my "Word a Day" desk calendar. So what the hell is going on? Why can't I write a love letter that I can be proud of?

It also made me kind of sad for my boyfriend. He is super smart and well-read. He has a true gift for conveying his thoughts in a way that leaves you warm and fuzzy with a hint of admiration to add some tang to it. And here I am, making him sit at his computer during work hours and read this drivel, this deplorable muck.

I've had this problem forever. I guess my feelings get so strong that an important, word-knowing part of my brain shuts down to acknowledge the feelings instead of allowing me to write down smart adjectives. Yet I still insist on writing through the haze, and what I end up with is a face creased with smile lines and a paper full of static and beeps.

Love turns me into one of those goddamned bushmen that click to communicate. Only less eloquent.

There's no solution. If I've got a handle on my feelings, then I can make it sound pretty. But if it's coming straight from the Ticker in all it's emotion-rific glory, then it ends up a little ridiculous. I am going to keep writing, though, in the hopes that one day I will write something that I can be proud of. I guess the important part is that I'm writing them in the first place. Right?

love, grae