Liberty in Ink
There is liberty in ink. A feeling of release, of finally saying it all after having bottled it down for a long, long time. Crumpled thoughts, repressed feelings. They don't age well. It's almost like the relief of having a swollen abscess incised by a scalpel. One type of pain, a sweet, welcome, clean stab, cutting open the malignant, throbbing focus of hurt. Why do write down our thoughts? Are they, perhaps, so important that they deserve to be recorded? Laid down to guide us, or our successors, through the ages? Or do we, in putting pen to paper, actually attempt to eject them once and for all? Is the exercise solely cathartic? For myself, writing has always been the truest mirror I'd ever examine myself in. In allowing my brain to wander, I'd start with something simple, one innocent idea, hold its hand and stroll along. I'd then accelerate to a jog chasing a seemingly connected line of thought, then another, then all of a sudden I'd swerve sharply into a da...