drama, required to write, the fuel for the engine, the special sauce, the drama. Emotional strings, scar tissue, picked at scans, bleeds red, ink, words full of portent and meaning, why does joy find no cracks, no holes in the damn, the dyke sealed tight, and happiness just flourishes behind the walls, and doesn't spill out on the page. As if happiness and joy is selfish, and doesn't need to be expressed, instead the constant whining, the pouting, the heart on the sleeve, worn for all to see. Just need to write while happy, and full of joy. Maybe I just need the practice