Pen Lifts

Inspired by reading this right here.

You sit yourself down in a coffee shop, settle down for a day of peace. Maybe inspiration will strike you and tomorrow you’ll be famous because of the moments that’ll follow. Today coffee, tomorrow fame. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.


One book’s cover is just an unappealing as the one next to it. Yet one sells more copies. Content. That is the answer here; the content. What have you got in your life that makes it more interesting than that girl’s life? You briefly make eye contact with “that girl” and look down at the empty page of your journal. Well? The blank space challenges you to find an answer…or something. A word. Write it down and then boom. You have your reason.

But she is just as broken as you are. She has just as many hidden talents, exposed secrets and white lies in her life, maybe even more than you have. She does. How could she not? Her hair is short, died purple and grey. There’s a hint of tattoo on her left forearm and her lip is pierced. No make-up. Leather jacket, tight white shirt and leggings. Boots. They’re scuffed. She walks everywhere.

You blink and take a moment, because now you’ve started to ponder her soul. Her essence and her being. If you were to examine closely, what would you find. Darkness? Creaks, and pain. Her outside image projects the simple fact that she has personality. She’s quirky. Maybe she stays up too late, goes on too many dates, and can’t make ’em stay. You giggle to yourself because you’ve cleverly woven lyrics into your journal entry. Good one.

What you don’t see is that she got that tattoo after breaking up with her long-term partner who kept the dog and her collection of The Who records, not to mention the record player. You’re also unaware that her back is covered in ink, because her father passed away and she wanted him with her always. You can’t see that she’s graduated with a master’s degree in engineering and works for a chemical plant just outside the city. And guess what she’s actually close to her mother, they’re the best of friends. You don’t know that she cut off all her hair because a stupid boy took advantage of her and ripped a chunk of it out. She’s an aunt. She’s a sister.

She’s been hurt, but you can’t see it. Her pain is not so easy to spot. You can only see that she may be a little rough around the edges.

Your pen lifts from the paper, and you re-read what you’ve written. Glance back up and “that girl” is sipping on some coffee. The internal battle begins. Stop thinking you idiot. Get up. Go over there and say hi.

What about inspiration? 

So fame isn’t on tomorrow’s horizon. Who gives a f**k?

So you drop your pen in your journal, pick up your hipster cloth bag and venture over. She looks up and instantly you regret coming over. What on earth were you thinking?

Your thoughts run wild. But it’s truly not so bad. If everyone were scared of approaching strangers than nobody would make friends.

“I like your tattoo,” you stutter.


And thus it begins. Something new.

Us happy people gotta stick together.

Give some blood please, that’d be nice. Check out to find a clinic and give.

Oh hello hi! Have a Happiness Experience you'd like to share? Well share it here by sending an email ( AND after you've done that the paradigm of logic states you should like FindingFelicity on Facebook ( Pretty please help me spread a smile, and some awareness. Muchos Gracias! Merci Beaucoup! 谢谢!

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