Tonight I look back on my writing adventures that became an inferno over a month ago. Some words were pulled from months or even years back, when the seeds were quietly planted, but most appeared only after those seeds began to bloom this summer.
When I “should” be sleeping, instead I furiously write when the words start to spill from my brain and heart. I can’t remember ever having a greater need than this.
The comfort, the therapy, the catharsis is in the telling, not in being received. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But in truth, while screaming into an empty room can have it’s benefits, it may turn out to be a little inadequate after all. It requires supplementation.
With no small amount of courage, I share it all with another. It’s been such a comfort to be able to let it all be known to another person who doesn’t (I hope…!) despise them.
Whether written purely for my own sub-consciousness or to be given to another, they serve a purpose. However, it’s such a quiet, passing fulfillment. How quickly these meagre offerings will be forgotten. Maybe that’s why I go back and revisit them periodically: not just to reconsider what each one may really mean to me, but also to create a sense of longevity.
Why do I continue with such fervor, when I know the lines will all dissolve and fade away, and probably sooner than later? Is it really just a cathartic spewing? Or is forming connections with other people just as big of a need right now?
I’m really not sure.
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