Us ‘writers’ are an odd bunch. We love words. Why is it so fulfilling to type/write out my thoughts? I feel a sense of completeness when I write. I hold a pen and start writing in a notebook. I open up my laptop and start to type away and right now I am enjoying the mere act of typing my thoughts.
Love has no reason, or so they say. But, my love for writing does have a reason.
The pleasure of writing is not in recognition; it is not in the appreciation. It is in the release.
The mind and brain can get bogged down with junk–thoughts about people whom you try to forget, thoughts of memories and experiences that belong in the past–they cloud your sight and occupy much needed space in your mind. I say mind because that’s where memories reside. Not heart, because heart only beats faster and slower at the thought of some memories–and that’s why people think they experience the emotions of love, fear and hatred. It all begins in the mind and ends in the heart and it becomes a physical pain or pleasure depending on whether you are in love or you have been hurt, saddened by experiences or in love with the idea of what those experiences unleashed. They say wounds heal with time. Some wounds leave scars, some don’t.
You realize at some point along the way that experiences and love and heartache and memories can make you love better. You learn just how much love you have to share.
I write to understand my reactions to different situations. I write to make sense of how others react to me. I write so that I can feel one with my thoughts. Many thoughts just slip away into the abyss of unknown and irretrievable things. What is life but a string of thoughts connected by the thread of time?
And what is the point of having these thoughts if not to share them with others who may just feel a little hope, a breathe of air and a feeling that somewhere someone else is feeling or thinking the same thing?
I write not only for me but for others who may feel ordinary but need to believe they are anything but…