I don’t write at the moment. I’m too happy. It’s funny how happiness makes you not want to create. I think my inspiration lives in the dark cracks and in the sadness. But not if im too sad. Then im grey, lifeless.
A lot of artists create better in misery. It’s a place of introspection and self indulgery. At the moment I mostly want to be out. Be around people. Share this. My words happen around bar tables and on long walks. And i sound like every love song ever written. It’s hard to find new words for happiness.
I try. And i talk. But mostly i just smile and kind of save my happiness for a rainy day. I know London can be full of them. I even sit there on my sofa being. You know that you are in a good place when you are happy just being.
Things have fallen right. Aligned. Like stars.
Me and Katta walk along Scrubs. It’s that last light of the day and Woolly is hounding along the high grass. It’s not warm. London is cold at the moment and it rains every day. We talk about missing the sun. Wanting a tan. Laugh about the London bad.
Between the bad words, the jokey unhappiness there’s all the good. Katta smile about a cute guy that makes her feel something and I need to stop myself from once again talk, talk, talk. Then i end up doing it anyway. Because happiness.
Then Katta looks at me and says
‘I love being high on life’
and I can only agree.
Letters to my family 