I have been writing for a few years now; old fashioned pen to paper, numerous notebooks and journals piled high in a dusty corner of my space. I’ve kept type-written journals unpublished until today. I’m not quite sure why, so I must enquire… Is it fear? Fear of strangers who may somehow discover my posts, (do people still do random things like that?) read my words, and reject my thoughts? Perhaps others will think my thoughts and experiences are utter nonsense? No, no matter, for my words are my truth, and every single being has their own story to tell, in their own time and in their own way; the only exception being those who think they have no story. Ah…but those stories are really the most interesting of them all! Regardless, today I clicked publish. For me, writing is partly a form of self harm- not physically (I’ll get to that eventually), but emotionally. My pen sporadically blotting ink because I refuse to avail myself of anything other than a proper writing instrument, the expensive thick cream coloured paper (never white) and leather bound journals may as well be a whip to flog myself, or a shiny new razor blade, sitting in the packet awaiting its first beautiful cut across my skin. But not just anywhere, you see.
Then, there’s the food issue. While I’m lost in my paragraphs, finally glancing at the clock and realising hours have passed. Self care! That phrase screams out to your mind from everywhere these days. So, I begin the imagery (they sounded good in my head, my plans did) of most beautiful looking meals, almost too lovely to be edible, all the while knowing I would not be consuming anything. But I create anyway – and I have no doubt it would have tasted divine. That’s enough for me. But in the end, all of my careful planning, preparation, presentation, and of course the expense, never came to much personal fruition. Because, I don’t feel hungry. Seriously. I do not ever feel hungry. I believe it is a mechanism ingrained somewhere inside. Writing to shed excess baggage- now there’s a book that’s probably already been written.
It doesn’t matter how big or how small, every little event in life will create drama. In the past, my whole being and existence revolved around some drama or another. Even the smallest of occurrences, I would need to somehow add something else to make it bigger- more resentment, more excitement, more disorder, more overwhelm, and finally, CHAOS. Because I thrived that way, loving my chaos, my infinity. It’s my spice in life, albeit an addictive spice. I suppose I still do embrace chaos; although now that my rough edges have been slightly worn with time, in a more principled (!) and socially accepted (!) way. Writing is in no way a cathartic exercise, it is a swirling mess inside a mind that comes spilling out into half-sentences that are far from coherent until the twenty seventh draft. It’s chaos. But it’s my beautiful chaos.