There are times when writing is the only thing that makes sense.
I’m not talking about the bullshit on Instagram about writing because “I have to.” No one has to do anything except for the taxes and death bit.
Writers can be an obnoxious and overdramatic lot. I once typed somewhere that writing is “like breathing, it’s essential.” Oh, good Lord, shut up.
There is nothing particularly sexy or sweeping about writing making sense. Something that “makes sense” is basic and while there are times, usually when I’m zipping up my jeans, when I wish exercise made sense, life didn’t work out that way for me. Exercise is necessary, but it never brings order to my thoughts as it does for so many people.
Writing is the filter through which I sort my stuff. I enjoy the challenge of putting words together. Sentences or stories forced into a specific tense and stream help me deal. There are times I can not find the words and I do believe there are still thoughts for which “there are no words.” But, luckily for me, most things along my journey can be typed out at one point or sometimes later.
I am not sure when words started helping. I guess I’ve always been wordy, so said the red marks on my school papers. I had this odd period in high school when I wrote down the lyrics to every song by The Smiths and kept them in a pink binder.
That could have been it, but those weren’t my words.
I think things hit full force when I felt like I had nothing else. When I failed miserably at who I thought I was, yeah that’s when writing rescued me.
One word in front of the other. No filter. Not a fucking care in the world who read it and definitely no concern if they liked it or not.
Frantic keystrokes, funny stories or memories I wanted out of my head and written down so that I… had room up there to breathe. Huh, maybe breathing did have something to do with it back then.
Whatever the reason, when I write I find order. Love and pain, frustration and scared to death, writing somehow makes everything more manageable and more accessible to me. It’s private and all mine.
Then why share it?
Why not keep a journal tucked in a nightstand for my thoughts and stories?
I don’t know. I must get something out of putting myself out there, or I wouldn’t do it.
There’s a form of therapy where you write a letter to a person, get all your feelings out, but never send it.
What the hell is the point of that? If I’m taking the time to spill my guts, choosing just the right words to convey my thoughts, that person better damn well read it.
Oh, see now I’m being obnoxious and dramatic. It was fun while it lasted.
One more thing, someone needs to blow the lid off that crap about people dancing like no one is watching. They totally want you to watch.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Bunk Beds.