I have always written to release the hounds. I graduated from a cute little diary with lock and key to spiral notebooks. At the start, I had no idea why I was compelled to put pen to paper. For me, the writing process was therapeutic. A time of slowing down the thoughts into some semblance of organization, to make sense of the chaos forever swirling in my brain.
In a recent Swedish death clean, I reread my spirals, then promptly recycled them. Destroyed the evidence of my wild crazy days. Ah to be young again. But I digress. The purge saves Pony and Lulu from having to decide what to do with my things. I want to spare them that duty.
Sounds like I’m preparing to die y’all because now I can die happy. Something very small and inconsequential to others has happened to me to validate my existence. When I say die, I mean figuratively die (or let go). Though I’ve yet to receive a proper diagnosis which makes anything possible but I’m managing day by day.
Okay, time to land the plane. Throughout my childhood journals, I doodled, copied quotes, and wrote poetry. Scattered all among the prose where pearls of wisdom that I collected by observing everyday life. Like no other form of writing, poetry was where any bad feelings flowed onto the page. If journaling worked before to keep the pain at bay, maybe it’ll work again? Dusting off my mad skillz. Without further ado, here goes nothing …
my heart is full
creating a palpable
sense of urgency
to make up for
what might have been
hide what hurts
for what was lost
I might refer back here as a landing page for my Get Real series where I plan on sharing more of my “stuff”. Or not. I’m still on the fence.
As always, more to come.