The Write Way Out (a freewrite)
Word Vomit 1:
Unedited, automatic journaling entry (10 mins, May 2019):
When everything appears hazy, when even nature can’t connect me, writing is the one thing I know I can confide in for assurance. It’s the one thing I’ve never resorted to as an escape mechanism. Acting, running/ exercise, music, sketching… at some point I’ve used those interests to abandon myself, to numb myself. But I can’t with writing. It’s all me. I can’t shut a part of myself off when I write. Writing has exposed all parts of myself to myself. It’s my enlightenment tool- the involuntary impulse which unearths a more illuminated perspective amidst the dismal crevices of my mind (not melodramatic at all).
With writing, I’ve been able to specify what it is that I want and what is preventing me from reaching it. Without writing, I’d just succumb into the histrionic void that is my over-analytical self. Without writing, the shatters of my being would be blown away. I’m not all together, and writing does not put my pieces back together. Instead, it takes the shards and makes art out of them. It takes the splintered parts of myself and turns them into something supportively ornamental versus something destructive.
Writing empowers me to reevaluate how I use my words. It allows me to hold compassion for myself, because I gain clarity on my motives. I can mend the chaos in my head. I can convince myself that I matter, that my words matter, and that I have something to say that people will listen to. Everything I am gets channeled into my writing. Everything of truth is illustrated through my handwritten words. If I could write everything I wanted to express in person, I believe that my awkwardly cold exterior would dissipate. I would leave no trace of fear, because I’m most confident when I write. Nobody can touch me. Nobody can interrupt my flow- except for myself.