Over the years, I have learned (the hard way) that writing isn't much of a choice for me. I need to write. It doesn't have to be (and heaven knows it often isn't) good writing, but the words, the sentences, their meaning, my feelings need to be poured out of me on a consistent basis, otherwise my channels clog up and that leads nowhere good.
Writing as well as creative writing (much like a few other means of creative expression) have been a life-saving form of therapy for me, especially having a deeply rooted tendency to overthink things and being someone who feels about a few thousand things per minute.
I have found pens to be the most trusted guides and blank pieces of paper the best listeners- attentive, always ready to receive the most profound thoughts and feelings just as well the most superficial or mundane ones, with no judgement, just pure acceptance of what is. Even if what is is what has been for quite a while or circles back repeatedly.. Unlike people (or even worse- your inner critic), they will never roll their eyes at you for still aching from that same heartbreak, for still not having figured out a way through your inner maze of anxious thoughts, for still not having healed a part of you you've been working on healing, for yet again being moved or left in a state of awe by the same things. You don't even have to explain, although you certainly can- you can just speak your mind knowing your most trusted friend will listen. The same goes for the e-pages and keyboards, although they aren’t always as good teachers of patience as the trees and ink, but I love them too, for being more eco-friendly and more forgiving- spoiling you with their grandparent-like tolerance for endless edits. You know, how they allow for so much, perhaps a bit too much for your own good sometimes?
And then of course there's the way in which words and writing is one of my top love languages, or, if you’ve worked with me before you may know I like to call them, "languages of appreciation". And it has been one of my favorite ways to convey my feelings to the people in my life, especially if we're geographically apart, which has been a bit of a pattern throughout most of my life.
I've written a lot of things that shall never see the light of day, and that is absolutely okay. But I've also written a lot I'd still like to share. To give you an idea, the pages on this wall (in the photo above) are about a year’s worth of my heart’s notes.. Words strung together in ways that could potentially be seen by someone other than myself. And that wall doesn’t include any of the physical journals or countless digital pages that held space for me as I tried to unload at least a fraction of what I was feeling that year. And then there are also other years and more and more constantly coming in.. So it’s a lot. And you can imagine it takes a while to get through, especially when your inner critic is (still) as loud as mine which doesn’t help making openly sharing vulnerable things a priority. But I’m working on it, so bear with me. Unless you’re already exhausted by reading this, then maybe check back in a decade or so, who knows, maybe I’ll have learned to be more concise by then?
For now, though, here are some written doodles I’ve already uploaded:
more coming soon
