My Companion 9/24
From the journal September 2024:
Writing is a form of therapy. It is, yes, it is. Sometimes I wonder, I wonder how all those madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation. It is there, it is always there, lurking, lurking in the corners of thought, in the crevices of the mind, in the spaces between the words.
Madness is a companion, a curious companion, and melancholia, oh, melancholia is a shadow that drapes itself over the heart. It is heavy, heavy and light, light and heavy. It is a dance, a peculiar dance, a waltz of feelings that swirl and twirl, that spin and dive deep into the abyss. Panic, panic rushes in like a tide, like a wild wave crashing against the shore of sanity, and fear, fear is the whisper, the soft, insistent whisper that tells you to retreat, to hide, to be still.
Writing is the antidote, the release, the unburdening of the heart, the mind, the soul. It is the act of bringing chaos into form, of taking the swirling storm of emotion and giving it structure, giving it voice. It is a way to hold the madness, to cradle it gently, to examine the edges, the messy edges, the soft spots where vulnerability seeps through.
I write and I wonder, I wonder how all of this, all of this tangled web of feelings can be laid bare on the page. The ink flows, the words tumble out, and suddenly there is clarity, yes, clarity in the confusion, light in the darkness. I can see it, I can feel it. The panic subsides, the fear transforms, the melancholia takes on a new shape, a new form. And in this act, I find myself, I find myself amidst the chaos. Writing is a form of therapy, a way to make sense of the nonsense, a way to stitch together the fragments of a fractured existence. It is a declaration, a proclamation of being, of existing in this mad, mad world.
So I embrace it, I embrace the madness, the melancholia, the panic and fear. I embrace it all as part of the human condition, as part of the beautiful, chaotic stuff of life. And in writing, I find the strength to face it, to articulate it, to dance with it, to transform it into something that is mine, that is ours, that is a anchor to the experience of being alive. Writing is a form of therapy, yes, it is. And in this act, I discover the profound truth of my own existence, the rhythm of my heart, the pulse of my thoughts, and the wild beauty of my mind.
