I had to get up. I had to stop writing, which halted the flow, and now my fingers are placing letters in the wrong places. I was rolling.  My hands were doing the thinking and the line between mind and keyboard was so direct. Now I’m forcing myself to get that back. I went to the bathroom and while sitting there in that little space my mind had the audacity to think about whether this writing that I am writing here and now could ever make me money. I was thinking about happiness and how it’s been my main want and desire for a majority of my mature life. How much goes into happiness? Can I be happy living with my parents, because I have no money and no job and am trying to be a writer, while all at the same time hating my life that I’m living?

I doubt it.

It is possible, but not very likely. Those two phrases were redundant. Fuck redundancy! I will say the same thing in many ways and forms and you will read it! Or not in which case I don’t care really.

Back to the point. Happiness. Money. I don’t know what will make me happy. Sure I’ve been happy before. Sometimes for almost long periods of time and sometimes for just a single moment. The point is it has happened. But I want to live a life when I don’t have days where I stare out the balcony window and lose my breath and feel the tightness in my chest because I’m longing for something more. So my mind wanders to money while sitting on the toilet.

But who would read this? Who would publish it? Who would willingly PAY to sit and read a story about a woman who is sometimes unhappy and wanting to change that by doing… something. I’m not sure if I would read that.

I don’t even know what THIS is. Am I writing a book? Is this just another rant that will sit in the memory of my laptop for years with its only reader being myself? It’s probably the second one.

I want to write something that moves people. Something that captures their attention and forces the English majors to break out their pens or high lighters to write captions in the margins and underline the sentences, paragraphs, or entire pages that stand out to them for some reason or another. I just want to write. I just want to be happy. I just want to do something other than go back to my room and watch another horrible movie on Netflix. I want to keep writing, but I don’t know about what. I want living to be something more than waiting for time to pass until the next exciting event on my calendar. I want each day to be like that.

But how?

How?