no matter which i angle i go at it
no matter how hard i look for my voice (for this particular tale from my past)
there is nothing. i can’t decide if it’s because the time was too perfect, i was too happy; if writing about happiness is more difficult than writing about any other emotion. what i’ve managed to conjure up is unsustainable. i’ve left it for a couple of weeks hoping that inspiration would strike (me dead), but there seems to be nothing to say about it that doesn’t sound stupid, inane, peurile. the best thing for me now is to let it go and maybe one day it’ll all fall together or it won’t and that chapter will be a blank page where my happiness once lay.