Sometimes it feels like a necessary way to get what's inside of me outside of me. Somehow, writing allows me to process and dump my thoughts and feelings in a liberating way. I don't have to consider who's listening or how they'll feel and respond. I don't have to mitigate. I just get to say the thing and think about what I said afterwards. So much less vetting and mental gymnastics.
Also, sometimes it feels like the only space I can say the thing I want to say. But then I struggle, what's the point? Is anybody even listening? And if nobody's listening does it even matter.
I read in a novel last night, "The sun was slowly rising, dipping the park and the gorgeous mountaintop in a sea of light. There was nothing to do or say. Sophie was experiencing the moment, witnessing this earth-old spectacle in silent. Sunrise and sunset always created emotions in her. There is so much unseen beauty in this world. An incident from her childhood came to her mind. She'd hiked with her parents to a secluded, small mountain lake in the Swiss Alps, and when rounding the bend that led to that lake, the view opened to lavish fields of alpine flowers. Thousands of them blanketed the lake shore in wild and bright beauty. The whole time her family was there, not a single other hiker showed up, They might have been the only people who saw this breathtaking display of creativity that day or even week. Had they not come, maybe nobody would have ever seen it like that -- and yet it was there, painted with abundant colors and extravagant detail."
I so often wonder, what's the point? If nobody reads it is it worth writing? But also the opposite, who cares? If nobody reads it, it's worth writing.
And so I suppose I write because it's fulfilling for me. It's an opportunity to create, to dream, to build worlds. It brings me joy and is life-giving in a way I don't quite comprehend. Which makes it worth it.
Looking for the T[ea]
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