Damn. I love writing. I love the way I feel when I write. I love the way I feel when I put my pen down after experiencing it sail across my journal with such ease. I feel most confident when I write. I feel most in tune with both myself and the world around me when I write. It helps me not feel so lonely, and it reassures me that it’s ok to want to be alone.
My chaotic thoughts often serve as whirlpools in my head- inveigling me into the depths of an abyss to the point where I cannot even tell if I’m drowning or not. But writing… writing systemizes my thoughts into a sort of organized chaos. I get to transcend destructive thoughts into a work of therapeutic art. Writing is an authentic part of me that has been unscathed by my own ego. It’s unlike my other hobbies, because yes, I write for me, but I do not only feel more connected to myself; I feel one with those around me too. It’s because when I write, I feel human again. I no longer feel like an outsider. I feel unseen, unsure, unheard, validated, clarified, empowered… I actually feel the spectrum of emotions. So many flow throughout my body during the duration I write for. I feel everything that everybody else feels, and that is the most important part. I remember everyone endures an array of emotions. Indeed, we each have different journeys, but that’s the thing… we’re all living a journey. We share the experience of having unique experiences. Writing just happens to be the most robust outlet for me to see the artistry in the human mind and psyche.
My wish is that everybody finds their tool that keeps life in perspective but does not restrict them from living the ebb and flow of emotion. The human journey is too delicate to spend time resisting that inevitable flow. I dream of everybody pouring themselves into their outlet and remembering that happiness truly does lie within. Any obstacles in the way of reaching that place is just that- an obstacle. Something that is in the way, and a part of the way, but not the way.