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 dark alley where I'm face to face with one of my demons. Writing isn't just my way of organizing my thoughts, or making plans. It's how I know who I am.

I've always been fascinated with other people's private journals. The lakes behind the dams. Written from the soul and poured into the void, not some elegant essay with the intention of "publication" to some audience. The mess, the pain, the frustration. This is where the truth is. We've become such experts at hiding the truth that the merest glimpse of it is a rare experience.

You cannot lie to your journal. Even the most convincing lies, as soon as they're on the paper, always scream at the top of their lungs telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The whole naked chaos of its absurdities. It's always worth the pain.

AAA

December 2023