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I feel the pace slowing down inside me, the intensity and the need are cooling and it becomes less necessary to agonize and analyze and emote. I think this is because things are in place already but my heart seems to have difficulty adjusting to being happy. Sometimes I try to think of what to write about ... and eventually just leave, having said nothing. I'm just another weak poet who only writes about strife. Now I just happen to be happy... and so there's little to say for a girl who has made a habit of thriving on angst. I look back on the reams of sad poetry and I feel that I don't miss that part of myself. I'll become a light farcical Noel Coward kind of writer - and be hated by all who read it. And I'll love it.

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