Pain is easy to write. In pain we're all happily individual. But what can one write about happiness?

[faeriemere]

I just finished listening to Graham Greene's The End of the Affair, read by Colin Firth. It's an incredibly sad story, miserable and hateful and heartbreaking by turns, yet I did find parts of it very relatable. Most particularly, I keep thinking about Sarah's diary. Of course, it's extremely detailed for a diary, and very literary (it being a

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[faeriemere]

I don't wholly disagree, especially for older memories. Which, I suppose, all memories must inevitably become. I do often find when re-reading that what I wrote stimulates memory and brings up other details that I'd forgotten. But still, there are some things that I can't quite bear to put into words. Generally, either it feels like it would cheapen the memories, or it's too embarrassing to actually verbalize them. Some of those moments I'm glad to lose; others, I'm sorry to lose, but as long as I don't write them down, my innate memory of them stays clearer than it would if I did write them down. Writing them down brings them back clearly for the writing, and for the re-reading; but the rest of the time, I find that they're much fuzzier than they would have been otherwise.

And then there's the sentiment articulated in the quote in the subject line: it's so hard to properly express happiness. For one thing, when I'm happy, I want to relish it, not spend time writing about it. And for another, I find it very difficult to adequately articulate it. The re-telling always ends up being so matter-of-fact and colourless in comparison to the occurrence. Pain is easy. Pain makes me think, and writing helps me get rid of the poison of the pain. But happy - it's always so fleeting, I hate to waste it on writing about it. And of course by the time I do get to writing about it, it isn't nearly so happy anymore, or it's through a lens of associated pain.

I don't know, I'm rambling now. Perhaps I'm just odd in that.

Thank you for responding. I want to write more. I miss writing. It helps me process what I think, and I have not been doing enough of that lately. The processing, that is; I do a fair sight too much thinking sometimes, but it's all futile if it doesn't come to anything in the end.