Balance

It is not very often that the mood strikes me to write anymore. I remember flying through pages of journals, like the words use to flow out of me, and now I can barely drag my fingers across the keyboard to fill up a paragraph. In seeking out balance I feel I am a 5 year old on a teeter-totter, pushing off the ground so hard one moment and crashing back down the next. Unable to muster up the patience to balance mid-air, unable to stop and enjoy the moment. In seeking out feeling grounded everyday I fear I have sacrificed my everyday emotions, or instead of constant worry and melancholy I really end up giving no fucks at all. I feel I am always looking for some balance one way or any another. But I miss the days when the words filled up pages simply because something had made me smile that day, and the poems on poems, written in purple pen or stained with tears, because something had moved me to feel that way. They say it is a blessing and curse to feel so much, and sometimes I debate whether feeling grounded is more of a curse than a blessing versus feeling so much.