Nothin' but blue skies...

It's said that the best art, writing, music comes from depression/angst/pathos in life (think Picasso's most admired images from the Blue Period which are saturated with the depth of his depression). For some time now, I've felt like I have nothing to say that holds much meaning. I used to go on and on about all the horrors in the world, my problems, bla bla bla. I'm happy now, which in turn is causing writer's block. I thought of turning this site into a place where I can wax romantic, but I would probably end up with one visitor- me.

Is it true that we can't reach into the depths of our souls to create our best work unless we're miserable? I still haven't answered this question. If I can't come up with something interesting to say in the next couple of days, I'll have my answer. Until then, jump on board with the happy idiot, who wants only to laugh and love, at least for now.

"Well, I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it." -Elwood P. Dowd