Writing is cathartic for me. I think that is clear. The ink is blood. All my angst, anxiety and thoughts pour out from the pen and spread out in a streaky mess. It still feels tactile even through this medium.
The result of course is what I’m writing sounds raw, emotional and intense. Indeed, they are some of my innermost feelings and thought processes. They end up on the pages and not in my head, which is turning out to be the answer to how I handle things. It feels like I’ve passed the emotions to another place, so I no longer have to ruminate on them to death.
Real life, my life off the page, now seems manageable. Low moments are less. Zen moments are pursued. Now I try to smile through everything. When I frown I am so aware because I can actually feel my stress level rising. Not that it’s a bad thing to “feel” but I just want to smile at this point and not feel stunned.
The X is actually the person who recently said that I should try to do things that make me happy. Sometimes he does say things that I see pertinence to, so here I go.
Cliché # 102: The pursuit of Happiness
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