I miss E Minor.

I used to spend hours alone in my bath in the pitch black. Glass of wine, music reverberating off the tiles. Now I steal a moment to scratch these lines between the six week old's meltdowns. Happy to be a mother, content to be a wife to a worthy husband, glad not to be poor and barely surviving... yet, it is a paradox that I am so nostalgic for a time in my life I wouldn't want to relive. I was so brilliant at being despondent. My melancholy drove my creativity. Poems, songs, artwork flowed effortlessly when I had the dark shadow of misery always underfoot. Now, I cannot find inspiration in my contentment. I have tried to place myself in that dark place to borrow inspiration from former times. But, to revisit old loves long released feels akin to cheating. How can I write a song about a former flame without giving myself over to the old burn? I am too old to feel remorse over those long gone relationships - they hold no sway when compared to my peaceful, loving, mature relationship. The unhealthiness and drama I once craved is unpleasant even to contemplate - yet, how else am I to mine my life for material. I am untempted by the Byronic Ideal that formerly haunted my every waking moment. But, my music style is suited to melancholy - I cannot write of happiness. It feels ridiculous to say that I am depressed that I am no longer depressed. It sounds ungrateful to say how I wish I could find inspiration again. There is no lofty ambition that I want to achieve with my arts - I deplore fame and its trappings. I just miss creating for creation's sake. I miss E minor.