why do i write only when i’m sad, but never when i’m happy? does that mean my world is down, when the rest of the world is up? do i not know how to be happy? or do i just not know how to write it? thinking about this takes me somewhere: a place that doesn’t ask questions. a place i still dream of.

i think of those who frolic in the sun, freckled shoulders and tangled hair, and maybe i’m one of them now. maybe i was, then.

when happiness is the subject, i think of the warmth of the sun, the atlantic air in my scarlet-adorned hair, the sting of salt, the wild wind. i think of the cold waters where rose and jack once loved and sank, and lighthouses that don’t feel symbolic. just standing there, unwavering.

i think of small-town mornings. gulls crying above the shore whilst i collect sea glass and dig for clams. blue and green and amber, sea-polished, imperfect, worthy. i filled my pockets with them. i think of a fishing town, tucked where the sea meets rock and sky, with peeling rowboats and laundry lines that dance above wild grass. i think of the sunlight catching in my red hair like it belonged there.

i think of the sun catchers i hung in my window. how they scattered morning light into constellations on the walls. i’d lie there and watch the colours shift with the day: soft halos of blue, green and gold, dancing over chipped paint and quiet thoughts. happiness arrived like that: not loud, not grand. just rainbow specks drifting across my bedroom walls. a quiet kind of joy built on a series of small, ordinary choices that somehow led me home.

this town kissed my wounds with awe, and i craved it before i even left. i woke up in this place i’d never been before, but it felt more like home than anything i’d ever known.

the next time they ask me to write something happy, i’ll picture this place and the version of me it held.
who stood in the halcyon glow.
soft, quiet, free.