So few of my writings are happy
A worrisome discovery
If someday these were the only remaining accounts of me
What picture do they paint?

Bleak and Midwinter Gray

Though I know this life to be good,
Happiness and joy are no strangers,
That is not reflected on the white lines of immortality
Which hold my blood and tears

When there is Pain, when there is Madness,
Then there is Inspiration to dissect and ponder.
When life is good no questing need be done.
"Happy" is depth enough,
Living replaces Analyzing

Only the moments of anguish,
Hurt, confusion, and anger
Are trapped by my pen,
Moments of searching,
Desperately seeking order and happiness in words.
Explanations and Hypotheses,
Epiphanies.

Troubling.
BUT - the joy is in there.
Between questions, between lines
A story of learning and awareness of life
A fluid story
A half told story and not entirely mine.

Stories of the Journey
Contain infinite joy,
A joy that pierces and burns and pains.

Stories of the Destination
Contain only peace.
But these stories are rarely told
There is no need, all is understood, the quest is done
Those are not my stories.

Look carefully
Judge kindly
Read under and between lines
The Journey is never so clear as the Destination
And the telling is more confusing still.

--Andrea, 19, Shortly before her death  
© Andrea Smeltzer, 1999. All Rights reserved