When I was a junior in high school, my English class crush told me, “I wish I were depressed.”
“Why?!”
“Because. It’s so artistic.”

Okay, so Sylvia Plath in her emotional cage and John Keats in his widower mourning wrote some pretty amazing stuff. Even my own poetry that bled out during the periods of deepest adolescent gloom were the most poignant and raw. But to wish for depression for the sake of artistic creation? Even if you’re getting a B in English, that’s not a worthwhile cause. B-, maybe. Depending on how Asian you and your parents are. Har.

Of the many voices I write with, two that I think are very prominent on this blog are 1) goofy tongue-in-cheek bordering on absurdity, and 2) a sort of struggling pain, a muffled cry trying to make sense of events and recover. In looking back I find that in 2005, I tried to stay optimistic while I struggled, then I went through a phase of euphoria when I broke free of previous emotional shackles, and then there was Mr. W whose appearance in my life added a calm stability that made most of my posts either dully reporting or if you’re lucky, somewhat anecdotally amusing.

I’ve read posts of others who are struggling, bleeding artists. The writing is beautiful and inspires me to want to write with the same honest emotion. But I don’t have any of those emotions and most of my prior wounds have healed. I *almost* want a little turmoil to add some flavor to my writing, except that I also recall a time when I’d thought all my posts were too depressing and wished for the emotional soundness to write the happy-go-lucky feel-good posts I’d read on other blogs at the time.

I think the moral is to embrace whatever state of mind you’re currently in, because it is human and beautiful in its own way. But I bet you’re thinking that the real moral is, I’m never satisfied, though I try. What color is YOUR grass?

*peeking over the fence into your yard*