The case for joy

I’ve come to realise my writing is the place where my sorrows go to live.

Seldom do I write when my heart is filled with joy and my fingers feel at home intertwined in between yours.

The happy moments, I want to hold onto forever. Buried in my mind, clutched to my chest, never to leave my embrace.

Whereas through writing, the pain in my heart can find a home on an island, no longer belonging to me.

But maybe writing about moments of happiness and oceans of love has a way of exponentially growing that joy, creating colonies of sparkles of warmth and safety, eager to share hope and respite.

Perhaps I should write about how my waist feels so tiny in between your hands, and about how your kisses on the back of my neck send shivers down my spine.

Or maybe about the way you hold onto me while we sleep. Like you know it‘s safe to rest with me; I’ll never let you go.

I could also write about your love for sunsets and sunrises, and the brightness in your eyes as you watch the day turn to night. I could write about the way you hold on to this sunshine and share it with the people you love, through lighthearted smiles and sweet jokes. You’re always making sure to share your sunshine.

I can also write about that time I quit my job and flew to another country indefinitely to see you - we had only met a few days before that. That’s deserving of an entire chapter for itself though.

I could write books about the journey it is to get to know somebody. To celebrate their ups and hold them in their downs. To be their place of safety, while also remaining as that for yourself. I can write about our nights spent talking, in between my tears as I translate sad Spanish songs to you.

And maybe through writing about those moments, they also get to live on forever. Not just in my heart, and at the tip of my fingertips, but also in the air that surrounds us and in the space where hopes and dreams live, ready to be grasped.