if there's a downside to bliss, it may be that Art has nothing to feed on. i am discovering that for my self, these days.
i am in a good place in my life, i have peace of mind and heart, i am content with what i have and trusting that whatever lies in store for me in the future i will be provided with what i will need. i have love in my life and i am growing into my potentialities. a secret gurgling brook of joy sustains me and nothing can touch it now, as it is a hard-earned kind of joy borne out of hard-won inner and outer battles.
everything is perfect, knock on wood. and i find that i cannot write as prolifically anymore.
is it just because i have been used to angst feeding my writing, or is that really how it is-- how Art must feed on pain and chaos?
or, maybe, my joy is just too precious and rare, writing too much about it would diminish it in some way... ?