I wrote longhand, intermittently, for about five years, and afterward burned what I wrote.  Whatever pages ended up with my scratchings on them were lit afire and consumed by flames.  They were my purges.

Purge the mind.  Regurgitate onto the page and then burn it.  Let those thoughts float into the atmosphere, no longer a burden on my consciousness.

Maybe it helped.  It was supposed to be cathartic, healing, and maybe it was.  But maybe I cheated myself.  Maybe those four or five years’ worth of journals I burned contained some gems, some insight into my psyche, some nugget of wisdom from my subconscious.

Then again I think most of it was just idle bitching, unhappiness with my current circumstances.  I just spewed out whatever random garbage my brain was kicking around that day, out of my subconscious and onto the page and sometimes I did feel better, as if the act of writing it down was enough to settle my nerves.  It was stress relief.

And strangely, many, many times, by page two or three I had solved complex problems, clarifying the answers to dilemmas for myself, almost unconsciously, almost as if some divinity guided my pencil.

It was a thing I had to do alone.  I know.  I know.  I’m sorry.  I am truly sorry.  It’s not that I wanted to leave you out. Not at all.  I just didn’t know how to include you and I guess I needed the time to be alone to discover myself, or rediscover myself, to really learn who I was, independent of you and everyone else.

And I was scared.  I didn’t know how to share those parts of me with you.  I didn’t want to burden you with my internal garbage. I was afraid that if I did, you wouldn’t like me.

Lately, my mind is less troubled.  I’ve settled into my job and new surroundings and seem to have found a degree of peace.  There is, for whatever reason, less stress in my life.   There is less to purge.  I couldn’t say that three years ago or even one year ago, but I can say it now.

So now, why not write with the intention of having others read it?  The purges were for me and me alone.  Now I don’t have to, nor do I want to, take this journey alone.  Anymore.

Now I want to write for us both.  For you and for me.  I can take you along – if you want to join me – on this journey.  I can share what I write and you can choose whether or not to read it.

Whatever you choose if fine.  I’m open.  I’m ok either way.





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