On writing.

Writing has always been a cathartic process for me. Even when I was younger and rather vain, and was basically unable to discern a piece of good writing from endless rambling, just putting down inexplicable feelings into words helped me to solidify them. Writing helped me to put my emotions into a concrete, understandable medium, and somehow that set me free. 

In the past couple of months, or even the last two years really, things have started to change. I'm not quite sure when it started. Sometimes it's scary to give your thoughts real shapes and faces. Sometimes when you do that, they morph into things much scarier, and understanding them incites more terror than release. 

I still want to write. At times when I think of the long hiatus that I've taken, I fear that I may lose touch with the flow of language, I fear that I will one day be unable to hear the cadences in my own words. 

I don't quite know how to round up my thoughts about this. I guess I'm trying to make meaning of the millions of tiny threads that flow through my brain and connect to my heart. I'm trying to understand why some things rile me up and why others make me sad, why I can cry at a stranger's wedding, and how I can be impassive in the face of personal tragedy. I want to understand, and sometimes I don't.