she tells herself to write something happy (for once). like pretty flowers under a moonlit sky, or cute and fluffy animals, or children flying kites.
but what does she know about these things, really? they seem happy. they make people happy. but where’s the substance in pretty flowers, where’s the depth in the moonlit sky?
false happiness, is that all it is? and if so, then what is real happiness made of?
she thinks it through. she wonders, and she realises.
she has nothing to write.