I have been happy, generally, but it's an empty sort of happiness. It doesn't exist through the presence of joy or passion, though I do have love, for certain. Rather, the happiness exists in the general absence of sorrow and shadow. There are few black clouds over me, but the ones that do overhang do so because of a lacking. The lacking is a loss of joy.
Once, I took pleasure in things. I enjoyed my writing and grew attached to the written word. Once, I stayed up well into the night, devouring stories and characters and ideas. Once, I was passionate about things, silly things mostly, but at least the passion was there. Once, I thought myself a musician. Ando once upon a time, I had incredible ambition. I was going to be poor, but revered in my field and above all, deliriously happy. I would have a husband and two children, in a little house in the woods.
But now the way forward is clouded with fog and I can't see any future at all. And being blind, I am terribly afraid. I've lost my w