I just realized that I would go mad if I couldn't write. I just lost one of my journals last Saturday (the small one I was keeping in my bag) and I was just itching to write the whole weekend. It was so frustrating to not be able to grab a pen and write it on a journal leaf.
Writing is a way to survive. A form of therapy, you could say. It is part of what I am made of. This morning I forgot the journal I usually write on at the office and again I had a minor panic attack. I ended up writing on an office pad:
"I would go mad if I couldn't write. I feel that now, after having lost my journal. And today... a million things to do. Internal chaos. I just need to focus. To concentrate my strength. One thing that comforts me always is V's love. It is a balm in a hectic, chaotic, sometimes unbearable day. I can bear it because love buoys me. It's not trite. It is an inspiration to me. A reassurance. It makes the load feel lighter though it is really not any lighter."
1 comment:
The other morning, I just felt like gathering up all my old journals and stacking them on top of each other. I don't know why. Just recently, I even told my officemate Rachel to be the keeper of my "Doogie-Howser-ish" (old-fashioned, word processor-churned) electronic journal in case I suddenly die. You wrote, "Writing is a way to survive." Another way of looking at it is as a way to keep on living after you're gone.
Post a Comment