Puppy-Eyed

I write stories. People die in a lot of them. Not gory graphic deaths, they just die, physically, spiritually.  There is much separation between people in the things I write; I don't have any happy endings.
Why is that?
I guess  I don't really believe in happy endings. They don't seem to bring out much creativity in me. I prefer tragedy. I think it is closer to life.
If we are to talk of all things woven in this blog, then I am made of sad fibres. It is not a question of whether or not I am happy, because I am grateful for my life and happy I am where I am, knowing and accepting that I am exactly where I should be for this moment in time.
It is simply that I see life through sad, puppy eyes.
So a lost friend is not found on the last page of one story,  a sick narrator goes home to die in another, a couple do not resolve their differences and their marriage is as dead as their child in a third, and so on.
Even my poetry speaks of "twisted, worming things", of being robbed of  "living long enough to die a martyr",  of someone so lonely and unhappy that their smile "is only worn to prop up the threadbareness of a soul."
When I am in my true element,  my work is miserable, and that is when I can say it is at its best.